


It is Not for Us to Greet Each Other, or Bid Farewell

by OwlBird



Series: I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach 10,000 stars how not to dance. [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sansa learns to fly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlBird/pseuds/OwlBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt to imagine what Sansa's evolution could be like, from (mostly) Sansa's point of view. Comments welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intended to be a sort of mid-point of the story; following chapters will take place both before and after this one.

Right Now.

In all the commotion, no one pays that much attention to Alayne Stone. And why should they? She is a bastard-daughter (the daughter of a bastard, she smiles slightly to herself). Alayne walks past the fluttering courtiers and grumbling lords and hysterical maids and around the winds that can sweep even the most protected corner of the Eyrie bare. She climbs up the stairs of the least used of the seven white towers, and into a small room that is used by nothing but the birds now. She goes to the window and leans against the chill stone, feels the brisk air. Here, secreted and safe, she is still Sansa. And Sansa looks out the window to think.

That Petyr Baelish is a bad man is a fact borne out by fairytales. No good princes or knights ever schemed to poison or upend kingdoms. And Sansa’s quite sure pushing wives out of windows isn’t on the list either. Only, she isn't in a fairytale, and Littlefinger is very good at being bad - perhaps in a world with so little virtue, that is some. But right now, it doesn’t really matter either way to Sansa. Nothing matters because everything is beyond her control. She has lost her family, her place, and has been kissed and almost killed in the same day.

She stares out of the window, on the rime ringing the Eyrie and down to the Vale, tiny below. The sun, beginning to set, spreads golden fingers through ever-shifting clouds. A strange feeling begins to come over her. As if she were in danger of separating herself from time. Sansa thinks of home, Winterfell, long ago and far away; of the hours she spent learning to become a lady, and petty fights with Arya and Bran and Robb and Rickon and even Jon, and dreaming of princes, certain that she would be romanced by them as in song. And her parents – how she misses them! Although she often found her father gruff and frustrating, she knows now in hindsight how much she loved him, how much his warm hand on her hair and his stubble on her cheek kissing her goodnight meant to her. She knows now she will never feel that protection again, not that kind, not in this lifetime. That life has become a dream, forever. A terrible aching rises up in her throat, thinking of her father. She thinks how horrified he would be, if he saw her now. And her mother, fierce and sometimes intimidating – but Sansa never doubted her love for her and her brothers and sister. Catelyn’s strong presence and soft hands were a guide-star for them.

And they are both gone. As are her brothers, and Arya, and Lady. As are, she realizes, all her ridiculous dreams of courtly love and expectations of dignity and how-things-should-be. She has been a selfish girl, she knows, but she had still been bound by how she had been raised; it was impressed on her that honor was honorable, and that the world would be a certain way as a result.

But it is not the horrors she has seen and experienced that are making her feel so odd. It is the realization that she is so small in this world, such a tiny piece of the great and cosmic puzzle, which might be solved one day and might not. Maybe he kissed her because he wanted her. Or maybe he kissed her because he knew Lysa would see them, and react so wildly. And maybe he hoped she would simply be a heavy feather on her way out the Moon Door.

The oddest thing is, instead of making her feel frightened, these thoughts are making her feel…free. If she is nothing, what does it matter if she tries and fails? Or if she were to jump off this parapet right now? Or, if she realizes she wants to learn how to play the game before she goes; if she wants to try her wit against the great giant joke?

The sun, warm and vast, is embracing her and whispers to her to come, to ride unafraid because if all is gone and nothing matters, then there is nothing left to fear. She grips the stone railing, because she feels as if she is sliding clean away from the present, from whom she was or is supposed to be, and out to lands unknown. And the unknown welcomes her. She looks out at the sky and sees two merlins flying in the air. She hears them, faintly mocking each other with their cries. She loosens her grip on the railing.

When the dusk dims the snow to grey, Alayne refocuses her blue eyes, straightens her stiff shoulders, and walks inside.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Back Then.

Of course, gripping the sides of the rowboat with slight and tender fists on the way to the Vale, she feels nothing but nausea and bewilderment. There is nothing to make one feel a pawn like the slate-colored sea lapping hungrily at one's boat.

Why is she on this thing? This is terrible! Her knuckles go whiter thinking of how much better – Sansa is sure – Highgarden would have been. While she’s glad to be free of the trap of Knight’s Landing (a viper’s nest! disgusting with rape and perfume and false people), part of her remains infatuated (out of belief or stubbornness?) with splendid knights and rose gardens. But it certainly doesn’t seem that the boat is heading in a direction that offers either of those. Her face shows her disappointment. Petyr occasionally looks back to see how she’s doing; he instructs a servant to hold her hair back as she vomits.


	2. Before: Little-Finger(s) to the Eyrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is asked to play a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WIP on Sansa's development, and relationship with Petyr. I apologize for any incorrect canon, but I've tried. Minor edits likely, and comments as always welcome.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sansa should be glad to see the back of the Baelishs' (little) holdings. The whole structure was sad: crumbling mortar, wavering corridors, small windows with mismatching ornate decoration, all perched awkwardly on a hill like a hat that didn’t fit. But she had to admit, her room did have a good view of the ocean, and it soothed her at night, the endless crash and pull. And yes, when the sun shone the water turned all kinds of blues and greens, and she could sit in the big felt-lined chair in the small library staring out on it for hours. And, fine, well enough, the fish for dinner was grilled to perfection, once her stomach had calmed enough to bear it, once she could think of Ser Dontas without her insides clenching.

But Sansa was not happy about the turn in events, and even less happy to be starting out on this new journey-leg. How much further is she supposed to be demoted? She’s glad of course that she needn’t marry Joffrey (even though, as he’s dead, it is an unlikely option), but is it absolutely necessary that she now be a bastard daughter? I mean, really.

After arriving at the Baelish estate, she had anticipated an important conversation when Petyr had summoned her into the library; she just hadn’t anticipated the outcome. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun dapples in and out on the worn bookshelves, and Petyr sits at a desk in the corner, dressed in more than his usual finery; mockingbird as always singing at his throat.

He motions to her to sit next to him. “Ah, Sansa, there you are. I was worried that you might have gotten lost in this large castle.” Sansa knows he is being sarcastic, and waits.

“As you know, I was graciously granted the lordship of Harrenhal by the late King.” 

_And you repaid him with such gratitude, didn’t you? And roped me into this whole mess along with it_ , Sansa thinks. A slight pause tells Sansa he recognizes the irony.

“This honor comes with certain privileges, but also certain responsibilities. Things are…possible that were not before.” Petyr glances out the window, his eyes reflecting the grey-green seas. Abruptly: “Lysa Arryn will arrive tonight. And it is very likely that we will soon be married. You will like that, will you not, Sansa? To have family so near.”

“I have not seen my aunt since I was a little girl…but I am sure we will grow close. It will be good to see her.” Sansa doesn’t voice her doubts (a lady never does), but Petyr probably hears them anyway.

“I’m sure it will. But Sansa – you know although I helped you escape, you are not safe. The Lannisters don’t easily forget. And, if I am to keep you safe, no one can know you are here, or know where you are at all. It’s best they think you dead or fled. We must disguise you, until the time is right. You will become Alayne Stone, dearest Sansa. You will be my daughter.”

“But Stone,” Sansa looks horrified; she knows enough of the world to know that. “Stone is for bastards!” She whispers the last part.

“My child, you will soon learn that at one point or another, we are all bastards. We all sometimes feel lost in this world, rejected by those around us, alone. The freedom is not always given to us to choose when we might greet each other, or when we must bid farewell. Even knights,” glancing at an open book on his desk, the pages turned to an illustration of one knight towering above another, smaller, one, ready to wield the deathblow. “But Sansa – the princes and the princesses that endure – they are the ones that know who they are, no matter what. They are the ones that have the courage to wait, to play the long game.”

Petyr beckons her closer. When she is near enough to touch, he strokes her cheek, and lightly turns it in his palm to face the sun. His fingers feel warm and firm, and somehow Sansa wishes the moment would last. “Your hair - you look very much like your mother sometimes, Sansa. That Tully hair. But I’m afraid it won’t do. If this is to be a good disguise, we can’t have your beautiful hair announcing itself to the world. We shall have to dye it dark...like your father's is.”

“Not my hair, please, no!” Sansa is almost crying. “It’s...it’s all I have left!” She reaches up to rub it protectively.

His fingers drift, and drop to his lap. “It’s only for a while, Sansa. Think of it as a game. Right now you are a princess who is in danger. To stay safe, you must pretend, and do it well. To the rest of the world you must look and act like Alayne Stone, my daughter. We will work together to memorize a story about your life. So if anyone asks, you will know what to tell them: where you grew up, your village, your friends, your habits. But while you are disguised, we will work to give you back what you lost. You and I will make you stronger, so that Winterfell can be yours again. You must pretend - but not forever. Just for a little while."

“But - but for how long? Can’t I just wear a hat?”

Petyr laughs at this. “No, my dear Sansa. The disguise must be complete. I will help you - we can practice together. We will start tonight. At dinner, the servants will call for Alayne, and Alayne must answer.”

Then he looks at Sana, swimming in water-reflecting sunlight, and says with something that resembles tenderness, “but even so, you, Sansa, are still you – and like no one else. In the days to come, I would have you tell yourself that, remind yourself, no matter what name we call you. Take a little part of yourself, and lock it away, deep inside, where no one can touch it, no one can change it. Will you do this?”

He looks so strangely serious that Sansa doesn’t know what to say, so she nods. She feels anger and humiliation at the sense she is being used and how low she is falling, but also gratefulness that at least someone appears to want to protect her. So when Petyr says, “if you want, sit with me a while, before the guests arrive,” she does, and is relieved, and sits in the chair by the window.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the library. Petyr drafts correspondence after correspondence, and Sansa idles through a book on the history of the Vale, listening to the waves murmur outside, and thinks about what he said. She imagines a little Sansa, in a little box, and practices tucking her away in a safe little space, but she doesn’t like the imagery. Instead, she imagines herself as a little bird high up in a tree, with red (NOT brown) feathers, safely nestled and hidden in a veil of leaves. She imagines this until she is almost sure the bird is real. Just then a horn breaks the silence and signals the arrival of Lysa Arryn and her party.


	3. Before: Eyrie-Coop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to learn how to pretend.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa hates Lysa. She would have disliked her either way, but Lysa reminds her too much of her mother, and that never fails to raise a lump in her throat. Her mother…how often she was she mad at her for some slight? For not letting her wear a prettier dress, for doubting Joffrey’s perfection? Her mother – superior in every way to this paled puffy shadow. But here they are anyway, in the cold reception hall of the Eyrie, wind screaming outside.

“What is it, Alayne?” Lysa says sharply, stressing her new name and looking at Sansa if she could read her thoughts.

“Nothing, my lady,” Sansa stammers, obedience an accustomed reflex.

‘Then take care not to stare like an idiot!” Lysa turns to look at Petyr, her expression rolling from peevishness to adulation. She wraps a protective arm around Robert, the thin boy-heir, and he sniffs sloppily.

I could say the same of you, Sansa thinks.

Petyr Baelish says nothing, of course, but the right thing: “We are all tired, my darling,” and embraces Lysa before kissing her. “Why don’t we all….rest?”

Sansa notices the ever-so-slight raising of his eyebrows, and Lysa’s delight.  
“Of course, my husband!” Lysa glances triumphantly at Sansa before turning back to Petyr.

Sansa wonders why Lysa bothers. Sweet gods, all I want to do is sleep! Why in the Seven Kingdoms would I want to be you?

A maid finally appears to show her to her new rooms, and she bids goodnight,   
leaving with the Lord and Lady’s low murmurs and little Robert’s off-pitched whining trailing behind her.

The maid takes her around tight and high-walled passages, where she can hear the wind blow. She (Jenny, her name is, a happy young thing) curtsies when she reaches Sansa’s room, and lights an extra candle. The door opens, she saw sees the rooms are small: a windowless outer-room for the maid, and a larger room for her, her small possession of trunks (provided of course by Littlefinger), stacked in a corner. But while the stone walls are damp, the bed is soft and the down-blankets warm, and her window faces North. Sansa undresses and slides into bed. She is so tired, but as she is falling asleep her heart feels as if it would burst from her skin. She misses her family so much, but they are all gone. No one left.

For some reason, though, her last semi-conscious thought is of Littlefinger’s face. As she was being led to her room he had looked at her. In later months and years, she occasionally thinks of his expression on that night, especially because she cannot remember ever having seen it after. It was the face of someone drowning, and seemed to say: please. But doubtless, she misread.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa wakes late in the morning, and lies for a few minutes thinking in the comfortable gray light of her room. She turns the thought over: “I have to be Alayne now. For real.”

It sounds so common, so un-special. That was probably intended, yes? Even noticing that, a tiny puzzle-piece, makes Sansa-Alayne feel a bit better. She thinks about who Alayne might be, and Sansa takes a little pleasure in imagining it.

‘It would be like…like a fairy tale!’ The Princess, surrounded by enemies, escapes to a protected but lonely place. She must pretend to be someone else before she can be rescued. And, being such a good Princess, she does what she has to do, with dedication.

Sansa shudders a little in sympathetic relish; how low the noble Princess must stoop before she is inevitably delivered and worshipped, and how romantic that is. She wishes Jeyne were here to share the disguise with.

This thought gives girl-Sansa the energy to get up out of bed. She dresses and washes her face in the stone basin (is everything made of stone in this place? She wonders, and then giggles at the thought of it actually being an eyrie, with twigs and feathers popping out of castle walls). Smoothing her skirts and hair, she opens the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Luckily, the Eyrie is not so big that she can’t find her way to the Hall alone. It’s a few corners she gets confused in, but nothing like Winterfell. No. Nothing like.  
That first morning, she’s spared the task of eating with Robert (Sweetrobin, as she later learns to stomach the name), and has a little time to get used to becoming Alayne. Would she sit up straighter, or slink down? (laziness suggests the latter). Would she dislike eating the porridge placed in front of her by Jenny (rather cold and drizzly) or not? (Sansa’s hunger suggests the former). So Sansa eats, staring around her, at the high ceiling beams decorated with blue eagles and out of the windows, where all she can see are clouds.

As she is running out of ways to compare herself to Alayne, Littlefinger comes into the dining hall, sky-grey silk tunic rustling (too fine for him, Sansa thinks).

“Good morning, Alayne!” he says rather loudly, and kisses her cheek. The smell of mint hits her face. “How did my good daughter slept last night?”

“Quite well…father.” Sansa hesitates to say the word. She tries to relive the adventure of a princess pretending, but it’s hard.

“That’s good. I know you will grow to like it here.”

Sansa says nothing, not knowing what to say, what to do.

“I hope that you will spend a lot of time with your dear cousin, young Robert,” Petyr continues, as if sensing her uncertainty. “I think you and he will make very good friends.”

At this, Sansa looks at him, a shadow of her haughtiness returning. She’s rewarded with a slight wry smile, and he says, “Well, I am certain you will grow to love each other…in time.”

“And how should I…best get to know my new cousin?” She’s managed to avoid him thus far, staring into the middle distances when Lysa unlaced her gowns and (sweet heavens) breastfed the boy.

“Lysa and I have discussed the matter, and we think it would be best if you could spend some time every day with him and his lessons. It would be good for the boy to get some exercise, some fresh air, play with someone closer to his age.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. This is to be her role? A babysitter for the little sickly Robert? Suddenly, she can’t find anything romantic in playing pretend.

Littlefinger kisses her hair lightly, and leaves. Alayne is left alone at the great oak table, watching swallows play outside the window.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Robert, no!” Alayne says very loudly, but she is careful not to yell. It doesn’t get a bastard’s daughter anywhere to yell.

“Why not?” says Robert, demanding, face crumpling and hand still threatening an ink pot over a now-stained pile of written exercises.

“Because even strong handsome lords like you have made writing mistakes, and they didn’t get upset about it! And don’t you want to be like the Lords of old? Wouldn’t it be fun to pretend to be?”

Robert pauses, considering. “Maybe. Alright, then, pretend,” and stares demandingly at Alayne. She glances around the room for inspiration, finds them in the discarded pile of puppets huddling in one corner.

“Then let’s pretend we are the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and these are our people. They are coming to us for guidance and advice. Look, here is one coming before us now, asking us what he should do about his wheat crops, burned by raiders.”

“I should tell him that he must grow the crop again!” Says Sweetrobin triumphantly.

“Well, now, that’s certainly one good way to deal with it. But maybe...what if it’s too late in the season? Perhaps there are other farmers that could help him grow another kind of crop, or perform another service? That way, he will still contribute to the riches of King Robert the Brave, but will not be a burden to him.”

Robert cocks his head, and then agrees in a childlike impression of nobility that makes Sansa smile, for once not hating the little lord-boy. So they go on, judging the puppets, condemning some to death and mercifully pardoning others, Sansa testing out her theories of how capricious boy-men operate. She is good today, and almost makes herself believe that Sweetrobin is her beloved young charge. At one point, she sees Petyr passing by the doorway, and they smile to one another. She feels special, for some reason, and she pretends she didn't sense a strange angle in his body as he stared at her. And she ignores the strange tightening she feels when she sees him look at her with this approval, and the guilt that comes along with it.


	4. Before: Petyr Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief Petyr POV.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

So months pass in the stone nest; the wind never rests. Sometimes it is a mere rustle, too often a high keen, and bitter.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The wind and his mind will not let Petyr fall asleep, even after Lysa drifts into heavy slumber (exhausted from the evening’s feast she probably thought was the unquestioned evidence of her final and perfect union). Plans, bad and less bad, weave in his head and drift over each other; an intricate palimpsest-ic embroidery. Sometimes he wishes he could hire someone to sew the entirety of his plans into silk - he imagines the results would be impressive. But they please him ever-so-slightly less than they normally do. Sansa - not Alayne - keeps interrupting them. She dances through them with graceful long steps. 

[Petyr had prompted Lysa to hold a banquet for the Lords of the Vale, to give them evidence that the little Lord Robert was indeed still alive (for better or worse), and to attempt to temper their dislike of him with copious amounts of wine, since they had all been dismissed to lower climes since he entered the picture. But it was Alayne that had attracted much of the attention. 

As she should, of course. Her unveiling could not be rushed: she must become an accustomed feature in their minds’ eye before he could play the next piece. But he had judged the time right to debut his bastard daughter properly (my daughter, he thought with a smile, the irony of the situation breaking through even Petyr’s unflappability). And his daughter had not disappointed. Too tall for her age, breasts swelling above her dress, silky-white. Cheekbones an elegant curve against her braided brown hair and highlighting her blue eyes (the Tully blue could not be disguised). She was modest, but knew what to say to whom at the right time, knew Royce from Redfort, when to smile and when to look sympathetically grave. 

Sweetrobin had managed to divert some of the attention with an after-dinner tantrum, but dancing and drinking and Marillion’s music made them forget any unpleasantness. Yes, that damnable pest of a bard had played beautifully. Even if he had lavishly plied himself with the Arbor Gold Petyr had hauled up in lined turnip-cases from the Vale (at considerable cost). And even if Petyr had felt his lips want to curl whenever Marillion had looked at Alayne with appraising eyes (any father would be concerned, of course, he unnecessarily tells himself). No matter - Marillion had his uses. Everyone did. And Petyr considered the evening a success.] 

And Sansa? He thinks she would agree with his assessment. He remembers seeing the joy in her face as she was turned by a youthful hedge knight who had asked her to dance. His mind unwillingly replays her dancing body, her eyes, her bright and genuine smile. Petyr is briefly disconcerted at how insistently his cock is pressing through his smallclothes. 

Petyr knows this kind of desire spells danger, but no matter. He has a long history of being able to pivot when the unexpected happens. So what if Sansa is maturing faster than he expected? Or if ravens, crows, and little birds bring him reports of dragons and otherwordly men-of-ice? The Seven Kingdoms is no longer the only board on which to play, but men who cannot change will die, unchanged. He must simply quicken the pace of Sansa’s evolution.

Petyr’s hands stretch out almost unconsciously to touch himself at that last thought, but then Lysa (as if on cue) begins snoring. He cools instantly, but thinks: let her sleep. She has earned it, her rest, and he is not (yet?) so cruel as to wake her up and tell her to stop. After all, without Lysa’s infatuation and misfortune, it would have taken him much longer to reach where he now is. And while he is climbing the ladder of power, she, Lysa, has been left low on the rungs (even if she doesn’t know it). Through no real fault of her own except perhaps a lack of skill, the woman Lysa is now is the product of a lifetime of being second-best, less-wanted, given time’s seconds with nothing to truly call her own but one thin little boy.

So Petyr breathes (deeply and quiet) and goes instead to where he has been a thousand times. To an unspoken, unacknowledged, and beautiful dream: under birch trees raining gold leaves in the late afternoon, near a running river, and lying in the lap of a girl with red hair. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Then Petyr too finally falls asleep, oblivious to the wind outside.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	5. Now: The Moon Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s her experience with Lysa, the Moon Door, and Sansa’s first play.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

But Sansa feels the wind very much right now, with half a shoe in its hungry embrace. “You thought you could take him from me, didn’t you?”

“Please, my Lady, I didn’t mean it!” Sansa is not quite sure what she did that she didn’t mean, but she’s quite sure she didn’t mean to do it. “Please!”

“No - I can see the badness in you. I can see how you’ve been lying to me all along.” Sansa sees the manic anger in Lysa’s eyes. 

Sansa is petrified! Her heart thrums and she begins to hyperventilate. The day’s images reel before her: waking up in a strange sense of anticipation. Feeling cold clean air in the soft predawn. Building her snowcastle. Petyr’s help and clever hands. Petyr’s kiss. Sweetrobin’s rage. She’s brought back to reality by the painful tug on her hair. 

“I’m talking to you, slut!” Lysa screeches. Her surprisingly powerful body moves Sansa closer to the edge. Sansa scrambles, debates a last-ditch attempt to push Lysa to the ground. Wind is blowing through the hall, but all Sansa hears is the blood pounding in her ears. Suddenly she’s on the ground, and relief floods through her like a hot liquid. 

“My love.....I've proved it, haven't I?" ….and I did. For Robert, and for us! And I wrote Catelyn and told her the Lannisters had killed my lord husband, just as you said. That was so clever." Petyr is talking to her, saying things in soothing tones, but Sansa isn’t really processing the conversation, still trying to catch her breath. Then, both suddenly and in slow motion, she sees her aunt’s body disappear, a flutter of silk and hair and eyes as blue and wide and beautiful as ever her mother’s were (“only Cat”). And she’s gone. Everything goes fast again, servants scream, doors pull open, and accusations fling about like plates of angry lovers. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

So now she is here. Here, in the least used of the seven towers on the balcony that faces northwest, unclenching her fingers and refocusing on the dying day. And what a long day it has been. How funny that so much can change in one day, in only one turning of the sun on its axis. She woke up dreaming of home and built castles in the snow. Now her aunt is dead and Petyr killed her. Now Sansa (Alayne, sorry) is more lost than ever. Who is left alive that will even remember her real name? 

What difference does it make? says an inner voice. Not much, she supposes. Recognition of the magnitude of her innocence and her ignorance and its consequences wells over her like a wave. Beautiful Sansa - she thought that fairy tales came true. She believed that the outer appearances accurately reflected the persons within: Joffrey was a noble Prince; Tyrion too grotesque to be a real man. She thought that if did, said, was the proper thing, the right things would happen. But that wasn’t true, was it? So what now? 

It’s bizarre, but Sansa doesn’t feel all that angry or bitter. Why, by all rights she should feel desperate, scream the truth until she’s hoarse: Petyr is not my father; Petyr killed Lysa; Lysa is my aunt; I am Sansa Stark; and I killed King Joffrey! But she doesn’t think she will. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, or growing up, or letting go, or all three. Try as she might, those she’s loved - and hated - have met similar fates. She cannot stop the world from turning, nor can she stop the gods (her Old Gods, the Seven, and all the other distant judges). I am no longer bound. 

It was not anger or bitterness that spoke - just the truth of the matter. The course of life has taken all she knew away from her, including her judgments about how life must be. It is...oddly freeing. The strange sense of anticipation that Sansa felt earlier begins to bubble again in her belly. If the paradigm of princess no longer applies - what then? Why then... she is free. Free to learn, to think, to gamble and to lose (seeing as how she has already lost most everything). 

Sansa is not stupid and never has been, but she has, yes - admit it - been selfish and shallow and silly. If she need not act like a lady anymore, then she need not fall victim to a silly lady's sins either. And if she need not hold to a vanished form of honor, then is she not also free to make her own way? Yes. And Sansa realizes that she wants to learn. She wants to learn more about the world she exists in, the nest that she roosts in, what other ways there are to fly. Sansa wants to know; she wants to learn to play the game.

Sansa imagines the little Sansa-bird she hid in the safe-tree all the way back in the Fingers.

Sansa covers it with another protective layer of greenleaves, the only form of insurance she can afford. 

Sansa hears the merlins again, faintly mocking each other with their cries. The dusk dims the snow to grey. 

Alayne loosens her grip on the railing, straightens her stiff shoulders, and walks inside.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Later in the evening, Alayne knocks at Petyr’s door (after a terrible awkward dinner where she sat with Sweetrobin, trying to distract him from his questions and force him to eat something, breastmilk no longer being available). 

“Yes?” says Petyr’s voice.

“Father?” she says.

“Come in, Alayne,” he replies.

Alayne pushes opens the door and sees her father at his desk, tiered candles illuminating equally stacked piles of paper (where does he put them when servants clean the room?). He holds a quill lightly, a full drop of ink quivering at its tip. He looks at her with a half-smile. “Ah, daughter.”

Alayne closes the door and steps a few feet in, grateful for heat the hearth-fire lends the room. “Is this a good time?”

“It is always a good time for you, Alayne,” says Petyr, and beckons her closer. 

“Thank you, father.” She steps forward, the firelight creating pockets of brown-red gold in her hair. “Father, what did you want to talk about?” 

“I wanted to ask you what you remember about what happened today. It was such a terrible experience...but especially for that reason, it is important that we are on the same page, no, my sweet daughter?”

Alayne feels herself take time in responding. She moves forward a step, does so languidly and yet with ease, as if with confidence through fog. “Father, I remember being so scared. Lysa was so angry, and I didn’t know why! But then, and then, just as we were beginning to talk again...”

Petyr’s eyes sharpen as he looks at her, waiting, the green turning to silver. 

“That terrible Marillion put down his harp, and he started screaming at her! And then, he pushed her. Why did he do that, Father? Why?”

Alayne thinks she hears her father’s breath catch, but she cannot be sure.

“Child. Sweet Alayne. You have already seen so much in your young life. Too much. And yet I fear there is more to learn ahead. Some men - why, they get greedy. They want too much, and reach too high.” If the irony strikes Petyr, he does not show it. 

“Yes, Father. But I want to know why. I want to learn why. Otherwise, I may not understand. Otherwise...perhaps I will get confused and...misunderstand the things I see.” Alayne repeats: “so will you not teach me, Father?” She focuses on Petyr’s face, looking at it with her big blue eyes. 

It is no longer a young face, though - protected from sun and battle and the usual measure of a man’s work - it is still a good deal unlined. Paler against the dark hair that sweeps back from his face. Lips hedged by a black beard, a tuft of fine black hair peeking above the neck of his green tunic. She looks into his eyes, his ever-mocking eyes. They always mocked. Maybe it was vanity, but she could have sworn they were mocking him this time. There is a pause before he says:

“Yes, my dearest Alayne. Of course I will try to teach you. You are such a dutiful daughter, I do not doubt you will try very hard to learn.” 

“Oh yes, I will! I will work very hard every day. But you must help me, Father. You know so much, and I so little. Yet.” 

Then Petyr leans forward, catches her fine-boned wrist and draws her forward. Alayne feels the fresh warm sensation of mint near her lips. “I will teach you, my beautiful daughter,” he murmurs. He draws back. The quill he was holding has left a blotch on the otherwise perfectly-penned paper. 

“But now you must go to bed! There are many busy days ahead, and you must get your rest. There is, as you say, much to learn.”

“Yes, Father.” Alayne curtsies, and leaves the room, feeling Petyr’s eyes following. She makes her way to her room, her cold room that faces north. Almost as soon as she removes her clothes and slips into bed, she is asleep. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

With ugly fast jerks, Petyr comes into one hand, the other bracing himself against the stone wall of his privy. Forcibly slowing his breathing, he takes a piece of linen from the pile, and wipes himself off carefully. Always clean hands, after all. He walks slowly back to his desk and sits down. He lights another candle. Stilling a final shaky breath, he returns to his work. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	6. After: Learning the Art of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne's brave new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a slow burn of a story, but not to worry: it's not a PG kind of tale in the long haul...

* * * * * * * * * * * *

If she thought that she would look any different or that the burnished mirror would reflect a changed face, she was wrong. And after all, what did she expect? How could skin and lips and hair give evidence of the evolution of one’s beliefs? And yet, she does feel different. As if a warm wave had washed over and taken with it some part of her, but yet she does not mind.

A call from Jenny of “Lady Alayne?” draws her back to the present, even if the knocking is more timid on her door than in months past. 

“Yes? Come in.” The door swings open.

“Morning, m’lady. I thought you might be wanting some help with dressing today, seeing as how...” Jenny trails off. 

“Thank you, Jenny. I would like help.”

Jenny scurries around, assisting with Alayne’s hair and clothing with unusual solicitousness. Alayne finally realizes that it’s because she is now the highest ranking female in the Eyrie. Bizarre, she thinks. Even when Sansa was to be Joffrey’s wife, Queen Cersei would have dominated. Now it is only Alayne. 

Alayne looks in the mirror and straightens her shoulders. She smoothes back her hair and practices a resurrected arched eyebrow, just like old times. She supposes the only difference is that it's Alayne’s expression now, not Sansa’s.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
She doesn’t see Petyr very much in the next few days, apart from necessary discussions related to Marillion’s treachery or household arrangements. Lysa’s funeral is brief, there being no body to lay to rest. Alayne doesn’t mind. She takes the time to roam the passageways, freer for now than as Lysa’s-bastard-daughter-in-law. Less dare question her, and the drama is still too fresh for them (she thinks) to spare much energy wondering where she goes. 

So Alayne travels the length of the Eyrie, its musty storerooms and cobwebbed battlements. She discovers where Petyr keeps the good wine and where the servants throw the contents of the privy. She finds abandoned rooms where guests slept in livelier days, and rooms full of trinkets, embossed with blue eagles. As high as honor, indeed. She’s half-forgotten how she felt that night in Petyr’s study, but it’s possible she is trying not to remember. Or that this sudden freedom is going to her head. Alayne even wends her way into the library. 

There she opens a window, and smells snow in the air, a full and heavy scent. She looks at the bookshelves hesitantly, a deep breath blowing up puffs of dust from a tome entitled “History of the Great Houses, Volume IV.”

“I would say it’s best to start at Volume I, but truth be told, they’re all terribly boring. And the great houses - what makes them deserve that name, I wonder?”

Petyr’s silken voice has caught the wandering Alayne by surprise. 

Steadying herself, she says, “I suppose because they are. That is, they are the ones that won the battles long ago, and became kings and queens and lords. The battles that mattered,” she corrects herself.

“Hm. Quite so. Though there may be a little more to it than that.” Drifting over to her side, he plucks another book from the shelf. 

“I’ve been wondering why you have not come to see me, Alayne. It was only a few nights ago that you seemed so eager to learn.”

“I was. I am,” she corrects herself. “Only, you seemed very busy. And then I...started to enjoy exploring.”

“And what did you enjoy about it, if I may ask?”

“Well, I suppose...” She looks at Petyr, who returns her gaze, head cocked and mouth smiling. “I suppose it was the feeling of adventure. Of maybe discovering secrets.”

Petyr’s smile grows broader. “Then you should become better at it, Alayne. Or do you think servants are blind?”

“I...oh.” Alayne really did think she was being careful.

“No matter.” Petyr pats her kindly on the arm. “We’ll work on that too. So - would you like to start your first lesson this afternoon?”

“Yes I would. If it would please my lord Father,” Alayne smiles a slow, shy, pleased smile. Somehow she knew he would come for her. “And how should I prepare?”

“Have a look at this one,” and Petyr passes her the book he had chosen. “And lessons shall begin after supper.”

Alayne looks down at the book. “The Art of War.” When she looks up, Petyr is gone. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the day Alayne feels distracted. It’s difficult to sit still through dinner, and she is staring out into the space of the small dining hall when Sweetrobin spills his soup on a corner of her green satin skirt. Gritting her teeth at the unwelcome surprise she reaches - unusually for her - to her glass of wine. Wine always seems to work for everyone else - why not her? And it’s true - after a few sips, it begins to heat her stomach and deliver a liquid glow to her body. 

So, after a long goodbye: “no, Lord Robert, you may not sleep in my bed tonight,” she makes her way to Petyr’s solar. She’s a little disappointed that the wine’s effects are fading after Sweetrobin’s tantrum, but then again, she muses, perhaps that’s for the best. She reaches the door, and knocks. And when she opens it and when she sees Petyr’s face turn to hers, she feels her stomach’s sense of anticipation returning.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“So,” Petyr says, after gesturing her to a high-backed wooden chair at one end of his large desk. “what would you like to learn in your first lesson?”

“I...well...I had thought you would tell me. Father.” 

“Then that shall be the first one. Daughter. Sometimes, the most important part of an exchange is not the substance, but who controls its direction. Right now, you have given me the advantage. Not that I mind,” he smiles, “but in the interests of your education, let us try this again.”

Alayne shifts in her chair, runs her hands lightly along her thighs, feels her skirt’s heavy fabric under her palms. “I...” What would she like to learn? Why she’s here? What Petyr wants with her? Will he murder her at some point? Is she smart enough to learn the game? Why does the kitchenmaid not pluck that damned chin hair of hers? Perhaps, she decides, it is best to start with the big picture. 

“Well...Sansa used to wonder, in the later days of her time in King’s Landing, how the Lannisters remained in power. I know they have gold, and I know they are cruel - but is that truly all that is necessary?”

Petyr smiles at that, the smile of an adult who hears a child say something unexpectedly intelligent in its honesty.

“Well, Alayne, it depends on the perspective. No one person is powerful in and of themselves; only in relation to others. The same way, say, the kitchen maid is not a common girl unless she is compared to a lady. Nor should one forget the kitchen maid; for she may know a secret lords do not. And as you mentioned this afternoon (a mocking grin); it is nice to discover secrets.”

“Yes, but how then have they managed to place themselves in that position? And keep it?”

“Did you bring the book I gave to you?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, looking at its frayed binding dubiously. “But what use is it? Women are not soldiers.”

“The book does not concern itself solely with the body, Alayne. Or else it would not be of much use to me either,” says Petyr wryly, gesturing to his small, lean frame. “It describes the art of war. The strategies, the tactics, the positions. It is a beautiful book,” he says with unusual respect. 

“You have seen the Lannisters in active attack, perhaps, but it is not merely battle - as you indicated earlier - that keeps a House tall. It is the land they build around them.” Seeing her rather blank face, he continues, “begin with the beginning, Alayne. That is often the best place to start. And, these books may assist,” and he pushes another stack towards her. Alayane is both fascinated and dismayed. 

“Enough for now. Come, Alayane,” and he beckons her to the large sofa close to the fire. He pours a glass of wine for himself, and when she acquiesces rather eagerly, one for her. “Sit by me.” She follows, relieved, as the wine she had earlier had still affected her more than she expected.

He drinks his wine and stares into the low and pale flames. “With the loss of... (it appears to Alayne he cannot bring himself to say ‘beloved wife’)...your stepmother, it no longer makes sense to stay here, high in the Eyrie. It cannot be good for you either, so young as you are, Alayne,” patting her gently on the knee.

“I agree, Father. We should know what is happening below. And I am worried I will grow wings if I stay here much longer!”

Petyr grins. “Just so, little dove (a brief shiver runs downs Alayne’s back at the phrase, but she quickly shrugs it off). And I think it prudent to leave soon, before autumn storms bar passage. It will be different below. You will have company...young women your age.”

“Yes, Father, but, (here an anxious pause) will we keep to our lessons? I want to learn.” Alayne stares into the fire, a slow determination, a feeling that she can burns up. 

He turns to her, and lifts up her chin so that they look eye to eye. She finds it hard to keep his gaze, now dark grey and swimming. “I know that you want to learn, Alayne, and I will teach you. It so happens that I want you to learn as well. No child of mine will march unprepared onto the chessboard.”

He drops his gaze and they sit by the fire, oddly quiet and companionable. Alayne - as Sansa never could - feels somehow comfortable with this scheming man, now her father. But that what happens when you let your past slide away into a sunset. 

She sips her wine, and imagines a world where she understands as he does. She doesn’t even realize that her eyes drift shut until Petyr is rousing her gently, and leads her to the door, where Jenny has been called to guide her back to her room. As she slips again into bed, she smells the scent of mint in her hair. Both their sleeps are dreamless.


	7. Forever After: a Bird Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne at the Gates of the Moon.

The trip down to the Vale is prepared weeks in advance. In truth, Alayne is glad to be descending, to human interaction and life. And yet part of her knows that she will miss the nest, her secret spaces, the wind and wide sky. The balcony where she first grew her wandering wings will be empty now; no one will see the dancing merlins but stone and snow. It has become in a way her unlikely home; that is, Alayne’s home. But she knows she cannot stay here forever. Stay in the Eyrie long enough, and you become a lonely and suspicious bird. 

So she packs her feathers for herself, and for Sweetrobin. All the excitement has him quite out of sorts, and his little body racks itself into shivers and quakes. Alayne’s heart goes out - albeit, in an abstract way - to Sweetrobin, and the terrors he must feel. 

“Hush, Lord Robert. It will be alright.” He looks at her from wide eyes in a thin face, scared.

“It will be! You will see. There will be more toys down below, more boys and girls your age to play with.” Seeing that that thought does not comfort him, she says, “I know a story where a lordling your age faced the same situation. Would you like to hear it?” A nod.

“A very long time ago, before even the Andals came, the Children of the Forest and the First Men lived together in an uneasy peace that dissolved often into war. A boy was born to a great lord of the First Men, and he and his wife were very proud. They taught him to be brave and strong and wise - just like you - but to fear the Children of the Forest. One day, after long hours of hunting, he found himself lost in the deep forest that grew next to his lands. The trees seemed very grim, and the rocks very sharp. He had lost his hound, the space seemed very vast. And then he saw someone creeping through the trees. His heart began to race,” and here Alayne mimicked a pitter patter on her own chest, drawing a reluctant smile from Sweetrobin, “and all he wanted to do was run. But he did not. And what emerged from the woods was no monster, but a little boy, his age, a child of the Forest. And they became friends. The little Lord learned that there was not so much difference between the two, but much difference between rumor and truth. And they had many great adventures together.”

Alayne looks down and sees Sweetrobin asleep. She sighs, out of gratefulness or sadness, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t tell him the end of the story then; that the Forest Child helped the little lord find his way out, and he was never the same afterwards, working to restore trust between the two worlds. For this little Lord, she knows, will always be lost in the Forest. 

And then the day arrives. The Lord Protector has gone before them. Of course (protecting from a safe distance, Alayne thinks). So now it is Alayne and Mya and the servants and Sweetrobin, tucked into a turnip basket. The wind screams gleefully along the sheer rocks, which had seemed so tiny from the Eyrie; larger still are the dark and bottomless gaps in between. Alayne doesn’t feel much like a bird then, more like a stone of her name. The only thing that calms her is to remember how she felt on the balcony, with the sun setting. Safe, rocking, disconnected in a pleasant way: already half-flown to new adventures. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Still, finally, they reach ground that is not tilted at a 90 degree angle, and the wind is captured behind the rocks. It is a strange feeling - like coming ashore from a sea voyage. Equally strange is the new noise; the hustle and bustle of voices. It thrums in Alayne’s ears like a hive, and she finds herself disconcerted by it.

And, no sooner have they reached level ground than: “you must be Alayne!” exclaims a voluminous-chested woman with a warm voice that sings of gossip. Alayne smiles, bemused. “I’m Myranda Royce,” says the woman, taking her hand. “We’ll be seeing a lot of eachother, I gather. You’ll be staying with me and Mya; but I have to warn you - Mya snores.” Alayne grins, and likes this overly loud woman. As she turns to reply, she hears, loudly and plaintively, “I don’t like this place at ALL!” Alayne sighs. 

The few hours she has to settle in are consumed by Sweetrobin, and she barely has time to wash herself for dinner and change into another gown. She notices a few strands of red glowing through the brown, but that cannot be helped. 

As she enters the dining room, as large but much more welcoming than the one in the Eyrie, she smells roasting meat and realizes she’s starving. Still, she finds herself first glancing around for Petyr, for his strange comfort. She doesn’t see him, and settles in next to Myranda.

The large woman leans in: “have you heard? The Queen Regent has placed a bounty on Tyrion Lannister’s head! Mark my words, Alayne, they won’t find that cunning Imp - but they will find many dwarves who should watch out for their hides!” Mistaking Alayne’s wide eyes and shocked face for ignorance: “the uncle of King Tommen, remember? The Imp who was married to Sansa Stark and killed King Joffrey and his father? The one who fled to Essos?” Feeling her heart beat again with a rush of blood, Alayne stutters, “yes, of course. I hope they catch him, and make him pay for those terrible things he did.”

“I’m sure they will. Queen Cersei always gets her man, you know! In more ways than one, they say...” Alayne feels a conspiratorial nudge. 

Gathering composure, Alayne ventures, “and what is happening elsewhere? What of the other traitors? We heard so little up in the Eyrie...”

“Well,” begins Myranda, clearly pleased to have been asked. “Lots. It’s unfortunate your Lord Father stuck you up there, like a flightless bird. To start, of course, that traitor Robb Stark is dead, along with his mother Catelyn, although that was a crime, the way it all happened. The rest of the family is dead too, and Riverrun looks not long before defeat. Stannis Baratheon is somewhere up North, licking his wounds. Sourly, no doubt, but that witch of his, that Melisandre (here her voice lowers) travels the countryside, they say, gathering converts and looking for King Robert’s bastards.” 

“To do what with?”

“Who knows. Foul magic.” Myranda shudders, not all out of pretend. “But you’re safe here, Alayne. Lysa Arryn didn’t always strike me as the wisest, may the Mother bless her, but she was smart to keep the Vale out of all this. With Winter coming on, too.”

Myranda continues her chatter, and Alayne absorbs it and tunes it out, like rain. 

At one point she sees Petyr, seated near the head of the table, and he turns around from a conversation to smile at her; the smile of an inside joke. Alayne feels warm (the wine helps). Although perhaps an increasingly distant memory of a girl named Sansa would have recoiled, as the evening continues she yearns to find herself in her new father’s safe embrace. 

Finally, when the plates are cleared and the conversations coalesce into pockets of drinking, laughter, and conspiracy, she excuses herself, citing exhaustion. She hears the sounds grow dim as she exits the dining hall, but is grateful when she hears one voice, still untired, call for her. 

“Alayne, daughter, wait! You would not bid goodnight to your father?” 

Alayne turns to see Petyr, just the faintest bit out of breath.

“I did not want to disturb you, Father. And I am tired from the journey,” she responds, more than the faintest bit petulant.

“Darling, Alayne, I know it was not easy. Especially bearing the Lord Robert instead of turnips.” Alayne smiles at that, despite herself. “But I am very proud of you, daughter.” Glancing at her hair, he says, “but be especially careful with your hair here, Alayne. We wouldn’t want our hosts to think we are sloppy.”

“Yes. Father. Will we begin our lessons again, then?”

“Of course - I gave you my word, did I not? There is much to learn...and in less time than I had hoped.”

Petyr does not explain the last sentence, but bends down to kiss the crown of her head. Whether she’s grown in the last few days or if the wine makes her stand tall, she lifts her head up and his lips meet the corner of her mouth. She can’t see, but Petyr’s eyes haze over with something that seems....soft. It’s warm, and safe, and terribly unsafe, and Alayne’s anticipation growls up again, lower this time, lower than her belly.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The days, they fly now, like pairs of autumn swallows racing for calmer shores. They are taken up with Sweetrobin’s care, her studies, and spending time with Mya, Myranda, and the other ladies of the Court.


	8. Forever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive a few poetic licenses.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Well?”

A pause. “He...was lying.” She glances - visual confirmation? A pleased smile. Alayne feels pride, relief. She loves feeling that she makes him proud. Even if, sometimes, the way he smiles at her makes her feel restless.

“Correct. And how could you tell?”

“The way he held himself. It was too brash. And it was convenient for you, the end result. Which made me think - knowing you, Father (a smile), that you might have had your hand in it, or would have likely thought about it. So.”

“I’m very proud of you, Alayne. Now, why don’t you give me your report on the history and strategic importance of Moat Cailin?”

Alayne sighs, the flush of pleasure subsumed into the burden of recounting facts. Still, she’s amazed at how much she is able to remember, and how sometimes she feels like she’s beginning to see Westeros like a series of puzzle pieces. A lot of the board is still blank, but when she connects, for instance, the importance of the Freys to their ability to keep a stranglehold on the Neck, she feels a sense of accomplishment and a desire to keep learning (her mind chooses not to recall that the terrible tragedy of the Red Wedding occurred at the Neck - and anyway - that didn’t happen to Alayne’s family).

And she’s become something of an avid reader, not just of fairy tales but also of history, wars, ancient gossips, accounts of journeys to the far east - the latter which she recounts to Sweetrobin to tempt him into behaving. 

The shortening days see Alayne breaking her fast with Myranda and Mya, gossiping and giggling. Then they may find her in Sweetrobin’s chamber, coaxing him in or out of bed, in or out of moods, or riding along the browning pastures of the Vale when the winds are calm enough, seeing to petty matters of housekeeping, or in Petyr’s solar.

Which is where she is now, and she steers her mind back to the present as he says, “Cersei is ruining herself even faster than I thought. It is, to be honest, quite frustrating. I thought I might have a few years to let certain roots grow...it appears not.”

“But I am sure you will be able to adjust your plans, Father?”

“Your faith is touching, my dear. But you must remember your father is not omniscient. Much as he might like to be. Though (appearing to take the idea seriously for a moment), that might take the fun out of it. Still, you are right,” Petyr says, rising from his seat, and motioning her to the fire, a gesture she has come to know as the signal of the end of lessons proper, “silly Queens will not succeed in disrupting our plans. Especially not when they concern your marriage.”

The last sentence hangs in the air. 

“My marriage (the idea stirs unpleasant thoughts in Alayne’s head, but she shoves them down)?” Alayne reaches for her glass of wine. Gulps down more than she should, but she wants to.

“Well of course, dearest. You’re of marrying age, and it’s high time we thought of your future in that regard.” Glancing at her, “Are you fearing he’ll be old or ugly? Daddy wouldn’t do that to you. And it won’t be to just anybody. I’ve been in discussions - and have arranged for your betrothal to Harry Hardyng. You know, the one they call Handsome Harry? Won’t that please Alayne - who always has an eye out for pretty things?”

“Yes, Father.” The words seem to struggle forming. “Of course. I’m grateful for all you are giving me.” The thought of marrying upsets her, and she takes another swallow of wine. It surely means she’ll leave here, go somewhere cold and horrible. And husbands don’t want wives to speak or study. They want them to cook and serve. They want them to fuck. Seeing Petyr smiling out of the corner of her eye, she’s angry. Angry that it’s that easy to just give her away, pawn her off to advance his plans. Angry...that he doesn’t seem to feel the same way she does; not the pooling of wetness in her crotch after a glass of wine and back-and-forth discussions, or the way she imagines how he might feel when there’s a fancy dinner in the hall, and she wears her dress snugly, or the guilt that comes with the knowledge that these feelings are terribly wrong, that one doesn’t think of one’s father in that way. Alayne feels a surge of stupidity and shame, but forces herself to calmly say:

“And when will I be married?”

“Well, there are certain necessary formalizations that need to be made, certain preparations. But not too many. (No, of course not, she thinks. Not for a bastard daughter). I anticipate the wedding will be in a few months, at most.”

“I see. And you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, Father. Why, after your daughter is safely out of the nest, won’t you be needing company? Who will look after you?”

“Your father will manage just fine. And it seems that marriage and myself...are not best suited for each other.”

Alayne looks at her father. The flames from the fireplace catch the mockingbird brooch and glitter, casting lit shadows on his face. He’s smiling, but his eyes are dark. 

She gets up, smooths her skirt, and hopes she keeps the spite out of her voice. “I ask that you will reconsider, Father. I want to have you as happy as I am sure Harry will make me. But I’ve forgotten how late it is, and the good news has made me tired. I beg your leave.”

“Of course, Alayne. As you wish.” He smiles and kisses her cheek. When the door clinks shut behind her, he drops his smile. That stupid Cersei bitch, he thinks. Her incompetence is forcing his hand, but he must grit his jaw and smile with his lips. He knows the revenge he wants will be his in time. In the interim, he contents himself with imagining Handsome Harry getting pierced through the balls with a lance. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The women in the court react with an expected mixture of excitement and envy. Myranda, naturally, takes great delight in suggesting the various sexual acts that Alayne might expect on her wedding night, including some, quite frankly, that Alayne had never heard of. Who knew one could kiss that place? Others whispered loudly enough to let her know they were talking about her and quietly enough to mute the actual words - but she knew what they were saying. A bastard. And the Lord Protector’s bastard at that - not even the real Lord. Yes, she thought, because Sweetrobin possessed so many noble qualities. 

She would be lying to say she was dreading the engagement (new clothes, after all!), but it did not excite her. This couldn’t be it, a part of her thought. All that she was meant to be or do. Her father wouldn’t take the time and effort to educate her if that was it. Yes, she tells herself. This can’t be all it is. 

Still, lessons lose their luster. She feels restless. Trapped in her skin. She starts having dreams again that trouble her, but that dissipate like cobwebs. Dreams of wolves and wild woods and a hand that she keeps reaching out for. Sometimes, out of sheer frustration, she angrily rubs herself under the covers, forcing the bursts of pleasure from herself.

And Petyr is also distracted, calls her less often to his solar. He’s away often too, but where, he doesn’t always say. So when, one oddly balmy evening, she gets the summons, it is with less than glee that she responds.

Petyr is standing with his back to her when she enters, sipping from a goblet of wine. One for her waits on the desk. It’s Arbor Gold, saved only for fine occasions these days. She sips it eagerly to unwind the knots that have just formed. 

“Alayne.” He turns around and smiles, but it seems oddly forced. She tells herself she’s being silly. She can’t really read her father - after all - she didn’t know he was going to marry her off, either, did she?

“Yes?” 

“I have good news. The wedding has been set, for two months from now, before the winter snows set in. It will be at the Eyrie - although the transport is sure to cost an arm and a leg. No matter - nothing’s too dear for my darling Alayne!”

He glances at her, then looks down at his glass and swirls the gold liquid. “Harry will travel here in two weeks, in order to get to know his bride before the wedding. But I think it also best that he should also know, before the ceremony itself...who you are.” Smiles. “Your true heritage.”

Alayne is confused. “My...true heritage? What do you mean?”

Petyr moves towards her, takes her elbow, brings her to the fire. It’s too hot for her liking, but she doesn’t complain. He tilts her cheek to face him, bringing back a memory of a library in a small castle, swimming at the edge of the sea. Alayne shakes her head to clear it.

“Alayne. It will be time, when you are wed, to announce who you really are. It will not diminish Harry’s enthusiasm; quite the opposite. Imagine it, Sansa: the crowds, the scene, where you throw back your red hair - where you proclaim (here the voice becomes a whisper) yourself as the heir of Winterfell!” His eyes shine at the thought. 

But Alayne’s eyes darken. She’s Sansa. Of course. She knows that. But she had forgotten. Yes, it is the truth. She had repressed, forgotten, buried this truth. Images swirl up and make her dizzy: a little bird safe in a tree; a vengeful little prince, two engagements and one unconsummated marriage; her parents’ death, a sundown sill watching mocking birds. Petyr isn’t her father. He’s her protector and abductor, the advancer of her cause but only for his. She feels taut, like screaming. She can feel herself turning inwards, on herself, trying to climb out her body and fly. 

She takes another sip of wine and smiles. “It will be perfect, Father. Yes. I am so sorry, Father, but I do not feel well. Might I please be excused to lie down?”

Petyr looks briefly concerned, but seeing nothing obviously amiss says, “if you will, then, of course. You will come up in the morning to continue our discussion?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I will be here.” Alayne leaves the room, makes her way through the halls, and brushes off Myranda’s chatter. She strips off her dress and stumbles into bed, willing her eyes closed, away, gone from here. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Alayne wakes up feeling terrible; achy and weak. Still pulls herself out of bed - there is so much to do. In the month since the announcement she has barely had time to sleep, but Sweetrobin had become even more demanding since learning of her nuptials, the wedding is only weeks away, her studies with Petyr have become ever more demanding. And today is open hall - where all the smaller lords and larger landowners come to air grievances and share gossip. She usually enjoys attending, watching and learning, making her own silent suggestions and guessing if Lord Royce or Petyr would decide the same. 

But as the day progresses she feels fever’s wings spread their way across her back, and even the silk she’s wearing (wrapped tight against her increasingly thin frame) feels thick and scratches. 

“Milady? Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you. I just think I need a little fresh air.” Alayne tries to smile reassuringly and pats Jenny away. She makes it halfway across the hall when the stones veer wildly sideways, the voices of the crowd rush in a thrum, and the world goes dark.


	9. The lost birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: extreme explicitness ahead.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
It’s dark again when she wakes, but silent. Her mouth feels dry, and there’s something itching on her arm. She licks her lips as her eyes accustom to the dark. She’s not in the room she shares with Myranda - the woven tapestries depicting the lakes and mountains hang only in the room reserved for honored guests. As she lies there, her dreams come back to her - sad things, lost wolves and growing ice and terrible feelings of loss. She remembers a giant castle of stone, burning, and a pale tree weeping red. Then the images changed and she saw fire instead, burning white men on dead horses. She feels like she was there, but she can’t remember...can’t remember who she is. She has a feeling she knows, but the truth seems to run out of sight whenever she almost has it.

Her heart begins to beat rapidly. Maybe she whimpers, feeling small and alone and panicked, but suddenly a man is there beside her. 

“Ssshh, darling. It’s alright. I’m here.” He takes her hand, and it has a pleasant coolness to it. With the other, he presses a cup of warm tea to her lips, which she drinks gratefully.

She looks at the figure, silhouetted against the faint grey filtering in through the curtain. It has a beard, but it’s somewhat thicker than she seems to remember, the clothes unusually wilted. His eyes - she thinks she’s seen that look only once before, long ago, in a high cold place next to an angry woman. Pleading. But it’s gone again the next moment, replaced by false cheer.

“How are you feeling, dearest? We’ve been quite worried about you. Shall I fetch Jenny? The maester?” He gets up. She wants to say, no! stay, that’s she confused. But she can’t remember his name, and soon the door opens again, with an older man clinking chains and a girl bearing a basin. 

The girl draws open the curtain and light pours in, making her blink. The old man draws up a chair beside her, feels her forehead and pulse, looks at her pupils and tongue. Then he pulls back the covers and takes out her arm and she sees red marks pulsing along it, like an angry army. He motions to the younger girl, who comes closer and places the basin under her arm while the maester reaches and pries off a plump wriggling leech. He drops it in the bucket, and it makes a wet slap. She’s disgusted but still can’t make herself speak. He repeats this several times, then wipes his hands and stands up. 

“Well?” Says the first man, somewhat nervous. “Is there any improvement? Will she be well in time for the wedding? All the preparations are already in place and we can’t just -”

“My Lord,” the older man interrupts, unwisely. “As I have said before, there is no way of knowing. She’s had the fever for several days now, and her fall seems to have left her disoriented. If you won’t let me bleed her anymore, well, there’s nothing more we can do than force her to drink when she wakes, and keep her comfortable.” 

“That can’t be all,” the other man hisses. “There must be something else, or why do we bother keeping you here?”

“My Lord (taken aback) - I...I wish there was more we could do. I can make her a willowbark poultice, and perhaps some milk of the poppy...but we cannot force the fever to break.”

They all stare at her then, and she wants to say something, but she’s so tired, and her eyelids are so heavy. “Lady,” she mumbles, but she doesn’t even remember who that is. And then the dreams swell over her like a wave. So she doesn’t feel the girl washing her face and neck carefully, or the curtains being drawn again, or, late in the evening, the bearded man pull up a chair next to her bed and take her hand.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
She grabs at the hand as it draws away, but she’s too late. She’s somewhere familiar - a castle with silk tapestries and summer breezes. She can see water through the window. It’s all lovely, but something in the air makes her uneasy. A clammy hand wraps around her neck, and the owner’s laugh is childishly cruel: “did you think I’d let you go? I’m not done playing with my little bitch!” She wrenches free and stares at him: blond ringlets framing the mocking face. “No!” she screams, and runs. Runs and runs, and then the first hand grabs her and - 

She’s in yet another castle. She can smell ashes in the cold night air, but at the same time, she feels calmer here. Safer. She walks to the window and screams again: ghost men on ghost horses ride in the woods, bearing a dead army. One of the riders looks up and sees her; smiles an ice-blue smile. “Come,” the man in her dream whispers. “You have to hide. You cannot stay here.” “Don’t make me leave,” she says. “I want to stay.” “Not yet, little bird. We must fly, for now. But you will come back. You WILL return. I promise.” And they run through the halls and fly for what seems like ages and -

She’s back in the first place, in a cavernous room filled with candles. She’s staring at a throne, glittering sharp, but the blaze of candles shiver and she can’t tell who’s sitting on it. She thinks it’s a woman. And next to her - is it the man? The man in her dreams? She wants to go home, doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be back at the midnight castle, watch daylight return and the ice men go. She pushes through the crowd and grabs the dream man’s hand. He turns to her and grins. “I told you you would make it, little bird. You were strong, and you hid. Now it’s your turn. You can go home, if you want to.” But suddenly she’s hesitant. Was that home? Is this home? She doesn’t like him laughing at her, but who will guide her now? The candlesmoke makes her blink and - 

She wakes up in an autumn wood, gold leaves falling. There’s a river nearby, running clear. A boy lies in a girl’s lap and she strokes his hair. She steps closer, and hears them laughing. She looks at the girl’s face and gasps - it’s her mother! Mother - she cries - but as she gets closer, the face becomes hers. 

And here she’s also safe, in a different way. Here she runs her hand through his hair, along his cheek. He looks up at her and his lips curve into a smile, sweet and unguarded. She smiles back and, suddenly, she wants to kiss him, wants him. It comes on her with urgency she didn’t realize she was suppressing. She needs to kiss him. She. Her. Sansa. She’s Sansa. The little boy is Petyr. Petyr. Lord Baelish. She’s not Alayne, she’s Sansa. She is free to be Alayne, but she is also Sansa. She must not forget. Must not forget the little bird. No. She will never forget the little bird, but she will keep keeping it safe, until it is time to fly home.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa wakes to the semi-darkness again; a candle burns in one corner where the man sits reading. The fever also still burns, but she’s woken with strength. 

“Petyr.” And she knows it’s the right name. “Petyr.” More insistent.

“Alayne...child, how are you feeling?” He gets up and comes to her bed, smiling, clearly relieved that she’s at least talking.

“Not Alayne. Sansa. I’m Sansa.”

The smile falters for a brief moment. He glances around (just in case). “Yes. Sansa. But remember - remember our game? Have you forgotten that you must pretend, for now?”

She licks her lips. “No.” 

“Of course not. You’re my smart Alayne! Here, you must be thirsty,” and reaches the cup of lukewarm tea to her lips. She drinks greedily, but as he makes a move away, she grabs his hand - cool in her hot one. 

“No. I’m Sansa. You’re Petyr.”

He looks at her confused, and even through her fever she laughs a little to herself, noting the rarity.

“You’re Petyr,” she repeats, and her hand pulls him to the bed. He acquiesces. Again, how rare. She laughs out loud this time.

“You’re Petyr, and you’ve haunted my steps. You’re Petyr, and you are in love with my dead mother. You’re Petyr, and you’re my teacher. Teach me. I want to know. I need to know. You’re my Petyr now, and you won’t deny me.” The delirium is making her voice sound insistent, strange. 

“Ssh. Ssh, Sansa.” Petyr leans forward, a strain of panic lining his words. “Please.”

“Yes, please. Please. Petyr.” Her eyes are focused fever-bright on him. She knows he knows what she is asking. Demanding. 

“Sansa, I, I...cannot.” Petyr shifts on the bed, anxiously, glances at the door, and she knows he wants to go, but doesn’t trust her or what she’ll say if he brings in the maester. “Come now,” he tries again, in his best calm convincing tone. “You’re still sick, and you have to get better for your marriage to Harry, remember, Sansa? Your marriage to the Heir, and you’ll be married and closer to your home in Winterfell.”

“NO.” Sansa struggles to sit up. “No.” All the dissembling, all the layers, all the shyness are gone. She doesn’t care. 

“Sansa, please,” Petyr says, but his request is pointless, the request of defeat. And so he sighs, strokes her arm, her bloodied arm and her matted hair. “My girl, my beautiful girl, my lost girl,” and she she’s not sure if he’s talking to her or her mother or if he had somehow orchestrated even her fever and the way she feels and she doesn’t CARE! She feels drunk and she leans in and kisses him and his grip on her hand tightens possessively.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
He kisses back, hard. He shifts his body and brings her up and closer, so she can feel his chest against her. She’s wearing a thin shift because of the fever, and her nipples harden immediately with the contact. She’s so hungry, and opens her mouth to him for more. He undoes his tunic, and for the first time she sees his chest, lean and tight despite all the sitting and scheming and letter-writing. She rubs her hands along it, feels the hair, delights in the tautness. Her hands reach to his back, nails grabbing possessively. Sansa loves it all, has waited so long, has been all by herself for so long. So when he murmurs, “my darling, my beautiful darling,” she’s instantly wet.

And he knows it. He reaches under her shift up her thighs, dips his fingertips into her wetness. She doesn’t care at all if this isn’t how she read about it in books - she’s glad it’s different and immediate and wanton. She arches into his fingers, and grins when he pulls back and licks them, grins when she feels his cock harden against her stomach. 

“I want you, Petyr. I want you.” She takes his hands and forces them to his sides. She bends him backwards with her body until he’s almost lying down on the bed, staring up at her, eyes too dark to see. “Tell me, Petyr. Tell me, father. Tell me.” Gods, it’s good to say it, just say and let the words flow out angry and low and hot. 

“Tell me.”

“Yes.” His body presses upwards, his bound fingers grip her wrists. “Yes. My beautiful fucked-up darling. I’ve wanted you so very long.”

With ease, with such little effort, he flips her, slides the white linen off, and lays her down. She feels the night air, and shivers. 

He murmurs as his lips enclose her ears, her neck, her breasts, her belly. “My auburn bitch, my innocent little love. That what you want to hear? I want you to win, and I want you to lose. It’s you I want. I want to caress your perfect ass when I see it, kiss your neck. I want to make you come screaming in the great hall while all those piss-ant lords watch me devour your cunt. And then I’ll deny it all in the morning. Is that what you want to hear?”

It’s true that Sansa moans in response, flush from fever and desire, but she doesn’t even notice. All she knows is that she nods and rubs herself against him. And that he moans in response and angrily stands up and yanks off the rest of his clothes. She stops for a minute to stare. Just like his chest, he’s lean and delicately compact...and hard. She stares at it, entranced. Then reaches out to touch, feather light. Petyr steps forwards to allow her greater access, closing his eyes as she feels the velvet smoothness, wraps her fingers eagerly around (like Myranda taught her, what, did you think they were always just doing embroidery and needlepoint?), but not too hard. Still, she can’t wait, and she doubles up to lean forward and take him in her mouth. 

He moans in earnest now, like all men moan do when their cock is sucked.

“Yes. Yes, my darling daughter, my beauty. You are so good. So much.” Gives her more. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you. I saw your lost face when no one else did. I saw your mind, your thoughts, your brain, when everyone else ignored them. You’re perfect...perfect for me. Keep sucking, please,” and he moans again, undone at last.

And she does, until he pulls back and pushes her again to the bed, positions himself between her legs and sucks. Eagerly, like a drowning man, loudly sucking like no one could hear. He licks, and swallows, and by the gods she’s building, and swelling, and like a flash (like a sneeze, some terribly cynical part of her says) she bursts, she feels like the liquid flow, and he can’t take it anymore either, even the King of the Ashes is still a man, and he positions himself between her legs and between murmurs of ‘my darling, my beautiful bird,’ he takes his cock and eases it into her. More gently than she would have thought, more gently than she thought he was capable of, he guides his cock into her. She feels a unique tightness, unpleasant but for the anticipation, and she pushes forward again and it breaks. And then all there is is pain and desire and pressure and wet. 

He grips her arms like a vise, breathes into her neck but it isn’t until she hears “Sansa, Alayne, my beauty, fuck me until I’m blind,” that she realizes he’s truly gone, lost somewhere between memory and the instant desire, and she’s glad. Sansa too closes her eyes, turns inwards, focuses only on the feeling now, the push and pull and relief and pride that she could make him fall, until he stiffens and she feels his cock twitch and slow, and he slumps down on her with what she would swear until her dying day was a pleased-as-punch whimper.

She feels their sweat blending, his mint-and-wine breath against the base of her neck. She feels his cock shrink out of her, but relishes their continued closeness. “My love,” she thinks she hears him say, but she’s falling asleep again, and has only the strength to mumble, “you are my bird. Don’t leave me,” before she’s gone again, and this time she does not remember her dreams.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later, the fever breaks.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	10. After: Flying and Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little bird begins to fly. But for how long?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She finds there is a tangible beauty in the world when she wakes. And she wakes half a stranger, and half herself renewed; the ache she had felt for the last few weeks is gone. The tea Jenny gives her tastes honey-sweet and herb-bitter on her tongue. The wind feels coarse but clear on her paled cheeks. And the woolen shift they giver her feels warm and comforting when she finally stands on weakened legs with Jenny’s assistance and walks to the breakfast hall. 

The sound of loud voices is almost overwhelming, but Sansa forces herself to keep walking. She takes one step after the other, and seats herself by Randa. As she reaches for her bowl of porridge, Randa strokes her arm. Sansa looks at her, and sees a friendly face. She’s grateful.

“It’s good to have you back, Alayne. We were worried.” As Alayne gently raises an eyebrow, Myranda grins her old grin: “Well, there will always be nasty women wishing us ladies ill. Come now, we must ignore them. Us ladies know better.” They smile at each other, and Sansa resumes eating, the solidness of food feeling strange in her mouth. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harrold Hardyng arrives a few days later, to the sound of trumpets and the light dance of snowflakes.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That he deserves the nickname Handsome Harry is not a flattery, Sansa thinks, as she sits across from him in Petyr’s solar: he is magnificent. The hands that wrap his cup are lean and long (and will slide well between a woman’s legs, thinks woman-Sansa, remarkably unashamed), and his tall back straight. His wavy hair catches the firelight, and brown eyes crinkle pleasantly when his lips smile. 

They smile often in her direction - and why not? In a perverse fashion, her illness has made her even more beautiful. Men - and women - long to run their fingers over her elegant and fever-sharpened bones, around the deep curve of her waist and hips and stare into her eyes, made bluer tonight by her ivory silk dress and the turquoise circlet crowning her mass of reddening hair.

“Harry, darling? Please don’t let beauty make you forget your manners,” says Lady Waynwood, shaking her ward’s forearm with bemusement. 

He snaps to attention. “I’m terribly sorry, Aunt,” rolls his teasing voice, “but it appears I am no match for Lady Alayne.”

Sansa smiles a slow smile, sees no need to make it overly demure. There is so little time or pleasure in this life, a fact she knows more certainly each day. 

“My Lord Harrold is too kind, seeking to calm my nerves with his lips’ sweet words.” Harry sits even more attention at this.

“Words are not real until they are written down, as my Lady Waynwood knows,” says a light voice, and then down comes the Lord Protector, bearing a parchment and two quills. He lays them on an oaken table in a corner of the room and readies a pot of ink.

“Shall we put these two lovebirds out of their misery, my Lady?” He holds the mockingbird-quill in one hand, and stretches out the other. 

“Indeed, my Lord Protector. Lest youth be youth, or Harrold’s ardor prove too early strong.” She lifts herself gracefully and grasps Petyr’s hand, as it helps ease her to a chair near the desk. Pulling a pair of ancient and small gold-rimmed glasses from a chain on her bosom, she unrolls the parchment and begins reading. It does not take her long to de-perch the glasses from her nose and stare up at him, stunned. 

“Rest assured, my dearest Lady. It is no mistake. But, if you will read the next clause, it clearly states that such will only be revealed by mutual agreement. You no doubt understand the danger an untimely admission would place Alayne in.” 

“Aunt? What is it?” 

“Harrold, I...” She rises, and walks over to take his hand. “Harry, look at me,” as she sees him still grinning at Alayne. “Harry - you will not be marrying Alayne.” That gets his attention. “You will be marrying Sansa Stark. The heir to Winterfell.”

It seeps in for a heartbeat or two. Harry turns around to look at Sansa, still seated in her chair, a newfound respect for her dawning. “My lady, I-”

“There is no need to call me your Lady, Sir. Not yet, anyway,” she responds with a small smile. “I am Sansa Stark, but I am still also Alayne Stone.” She stands up, feeling the heavy silk dress and the watching eyes. “I am both, for now. I was married against my will to the traitor Tyrion, to that Imp (here Harry shudders in empathy; what right did that half a man have to bed a whole young girl?). Lord Baelish, because of the love he bore my mother, helped me escape. But as I long as I remain the remaining heir to Winterfell (a pause), and without a Lord protector (again, a pause) I remain unsafe.” 

Sansa walks slowly towards Harry (may I call you Harry?). “They call you the Falcon,” Sansa says, now shyly, and puts her palm in his. “Will you still consent to the match?” 

She stares up at him, with wide eyes of ocean blue. So deep, so darkly blue, Lady Waynwood says in later days, it was as if he drowned in them, her ward. Drowned in the deep blue sea, and didn’t even notice. 

“My Lady,” says Harry, and sweeps in a low and chivalrous bow. “For the rest of my days.” Sansa smiles a wide smile then, and looks through her lashes to murmur, “my Lord protector.” 

The paper is signed in indigo ink, and the deed is done. Sansa’s eyes linger on Harry, as his linger on her. Torn asunder by their wiser but waner wardens, he imagines, yearning for his young future wife (as he’s yearned for many, truth be told). His bright and youthful mind cannot imagine why possibly, later that evening, his marine-eyed beauty would be found in the bed of her ward, wanton and naked as an ambushed deer. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
She knows it will end all too soon, any pleasure or peace she might find with Petyr. The wide horizon will narrow, inevitable as a play’s last act. But what else is she supposed to do? Besides, the play’s last act comes to all, whether star or stand-by. 

So that is why, after the deed was signed, Lady Waynwood and Lord Baelish assiduously saw their charges to separate bedrooms, and Lord Baelish called her back into his chambers, she donned her cloak and walked through halls emptied of servants. When the teacher calls, the student comes. 

Petyr greets her with a half bow, still in his greygreen finery, and congratulates her on her fine performance. “How quick my lady learns.” He takes a sip of wine. Puts it down. Picks it up. Sansa’s unsure why he seems so fidgety. “Thank you, Father,” says Sansa, slipping perhaps too easily back and forth between roles. “I convincing, wasn’t I? It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Rather fun, actually.”

“Yes, Alayne; you did everything right. Of course, any child of mine would.” Petyr tries to grind his teeth silently while smiling, furious with himself for being unable (unwilling?) to control this weakness. “You enchanted him straight off his feet. Here, have a glass of wine to celebrate.”

Alayne takes the glass, and briefly worries that she’s getting too used to it, the easy warmth. But she doesn’t care, not Alayne. She knows her Father wants her to, and as she drinks and feels her body pulse and his eyes darken she knows why. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
After they have recovered and and she begins to drowse, Petyr’s restless fingers begin a renewed journey southward. Feeling the almost instant flow of blood and pleasure, Sansa asks: “how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Make it feel so good...down there.”

“Down there?” Petyr laughs. “Is it a country? Perhaps my lady is part human, part ocean?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Men have called it a thousand things. And a thousand thousand men have ruined themselves over it, no matter the name. Trust me, I would know.” A pause. “Have you ever seen yourself?”

“Well, of course! I’m not - oh.” Sansa trails off.

Petyr gently lifts her off him and gets out of bed. He can’t quite suppress the shiver of his slim body making contact with the night air, but she has to admire how every movement is fluid, no energy wasted. He pulls something out of a drawer and returns, propping her up against his back.

“May I ask what you are doing?” Sansa says, pulling the covers up to keep out the chill. She also feels slightly ridiculous with her legs parted and facing the door, as if preparing for a surprise welcome. 

“You asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m teaching you.” His bare knees (pale, with oddly comical tufts of curly black hair) brace hers, and he gently but insistently pulls the bedsheet away. A mirror is produced, and Sansa sees what he says men are willing to wreck themselves for. 

At first blush, it doesn’t seem that impressive. Rather bizarre, quite honestly. She feels his laugh in the back of her chest as he sees her grimace. Her grimace turns to concentration as he points her to all the places pleasure can be found, and becomes an unfocused glaze as he shows her. Arching and shuddering, she begs him to stop and continue. He obliges the former, and grants the latter when she begs her misunderstanding, her failure. After she comes, she amazes even herself by taking his fingers to her mouth. Sansa tastes like tart cream. Petyr grunts in surprise, and she smiles.

“Do I taste good to you, Father?”

“Yes, you do, you wanton thing. I’m beginning to worry I taught you too much.”

“No such thing. I never want to go back to being a silly, stupid girl who didn’t know Volantis from Valyria, who couldn’t tell a liar from a lamb.” A pause.

“Fuck me one more time? Please?” She feels his cock twitch at her words, and further persuasion proves unnecessary, because he lifts her hips up and forward, and she’s on her hands and knees on the soft feather bed. He enters her, and it’s tight and hard like before, sore but also intensely...good. She backs against him, finding a rhythm, feeling her cunt pulse around him. She lifts her head and idly glances in the mirror lying abandoned next to her. Petyr’s face reflects out, concentrated and strained. Almost in pain.

His eyes meet hers, and they are as unguarded as she’s ever seen them. In a rush of wetness and realization, she understands. She knows now what her fever-self had already seen: the power and ecstasy in having power over another, whether to cause pleasure or pain. That while Petyr could make the Sansa-bird sing and quiver under him - even a mockingbird like him was still a man, and she too could have power that way. She comes again, and then his hands grip her hips so fiercely she’s sure he’ll leave bruises. She feels him freeze, exhale heavily, moan softly. He slumps over her. 

“Do you want me to be your ruin, Sansa?” Petyr whispers. “Or you mine?” He continues idly, his breath against her nape. “Are you the curse of Harrenhal, come to burn me in my bed?” He rolls them both on their sides and lifts the warm wool over them. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted...Father?” Petyr snorts. “You wanted me to learn, and I wanted you to be my teacher. Haven’t I done well so far?” Sansa is a girl again, seeking approval.

“Quite well...Daughter. Even if my daughter turns out to be a naughty bitch,” Petyr responds lightly, pinching her nipple.

Ignoring the jibe, “and then, what next?”

“After you will marry that outstanding specimen of manhood and reveal to the world who you are? The natural course of things, we hope: bedding and babe.” Sharply, “you drank the moon tea I gave you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I did. It tasted horrible. Worse than Sweetrobin’s porridge after he’s thrown it back in my face.” She continues, “and...I know we’ve practiced - but what if the others don’t believe me? Or if Harry changes his mind at the last minute? He must know he’ll now be in danger, marrying me.”

“If you keep to our lessons, they will believe you. Everyone loves a beautiful maiden finding safety in the arms of a handsome lord. Especially at Lannister expense. And Harry, well, that idiot would believe he could fly on his horse to save you!”

“Father,” she teases, “that’s no way to refer to my almost-husband. Besides, he cannot know what you know. For all he knows, Stannis is dead; I am his, and the Vale will rejoin the Lannister fold.”

“Do I detect a soft spot for the strapping young man? No, it’s alright. I’m used to it,” he sighs dramatically, swatting away her hand. 

“And Sweetrobin? He should not stay here, but he cannot leave either; he is too ill.”

“Ah, Lord Robert. He will stay here. Don’t worry,” he says, sensing her hesitation. “Nothing will happen to our sickly little prince that nature will not do herself.”

“And then what? What about the reports from the North? Winterfell, the Night’s Watch?”

“Patience, little bird. You don’t expect me to tell you all the plans, do you? The teacher may show the student how to read - but he cannot make the student understand the meaning behind the words.”

Sansa sighs, annoyed. “Yes, but the teacher could still give the student the whole book, instead of only the first chapter.”

Petyr laughs, an unexpectedly free sound, and wraps her tighter. “Ah. Sometimes I think I planned it wrong, and I should have made you my own for always. My child, daughter, lady, queen.”

“Why don’t you?” Sansa asks, and stiffens, awaiting a flip reply. But Petyr only sighs, and says: 

“It is not to be, dearest. Remember what I told you? Freedom is not always given to us to decide when to greet each other, or when to bid farewell. And besides, you know I’m not a good man. Not a man to be trusted. Yes?”

She disentangles herself and flips over, tilts her neck to look into Petyr’s face. She wonders how many women looked at that mask, willing themselves to see beyond it, and how many failed. All, says a part of her. In this light, his face is blurred slightly, and smiling. It might be mistaken for a loving lover’s face. Her heart sinks a little; she knows better. She turns around again.

“Yes, I know. But still, I trust that you have plans for us yet. I told you; I am not stupid silly Sansa anymore. You have seen to that. You will not leave your efforts behind. You won’t, will you?”

“You’re right, my darling.” Sansa can’t see his expression, but the words seem distant. “Now sleep, sweetling. Sansa must be fresh for her wedding.”

Sansa doesn’t need encouragement; her eyes are already closed. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She wakes in the milky pre-dawn. She wraps her heavy night robe around herself, and her cold feet find their slippers. She smoothes her hair and adjusts her collar. She turns back to look at Petyr, who opens his eyes and says, “off, now! Before that nosy wench of a bedmate notices you’re gone.” He stretches like a cat. A Cat. Sansa wonders briefly how the world would be if her mother had accepted - been allowed to accept - her little and bestest friend, her father’s ward. But then she shakes her head; such thoughts are foolish, and she has to go before dawn wakes the house. She silently opens the heavy wooden door of Petyr’s solar, and closes it silently behind her.


	11. After: Flying to the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sansa feels both the pleasure and pain of power.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Play something, good sir!” cries the Lord, gamely swinging his cup in the air, trying to defuse the tension. “Play one about beautiful ladies that are not what they appear,” and his brown eyes twinkle at Sansa/Alayne. Alayne/Sansa can’t help but smile in return; he’s so young and full of life. 

So the bard picks up his lute, and begins a tune of a song of a beautiful woman named Alayne and a Falcon who melts her heart of stone. Sansa laughs as Harry sweeps her onto the dance floor; she blushes through tilted head. Trying to remember being artless, she looks up at her new husband, who is laughing along with the heartbreakingly short weightlessness of youth. 

He turns her around, and she remembers his adoring gaze that afternoon, as she stood before the sept altar, hair returned a rich red and tumbling down onto green and white silk. 

She twirls, and remembers hearing crowd gasp, partly intrigued and partly fearful, as Brienne burst in, her fallen mother’s sworn guard, at the very moment when she was to bend and accept her husband’s cloak of protection. 

Harry dips her, and she remembers hearing her true name uttered - Sansa Stark of House Winterfell - and feeling uncertain and too close to the edge of failure. But then she looked at Petyr, and he was looking at her (always, even when he wasn’t) willing her to be strong. So she was, and rearranged her face to reflect surprise. 

She turns again, faster and a little dizzy now, and feels again the thrum of anticipation: was the crowd willing to be fooled? When papers were produced showing Tyrion was dead - or as good as - did they believe she was free to be married again? And when Harrold bent his knee before Sweetrobin, presenting him with a gold chain and promises of fealty - were their minds set at ease?

“...and the brave knight sailed on, his path cold and lone  
for though he had aimed his prow straight for love’s dock  
unmoved was the heart of the fair Lady Stone  
And no warm harbor could he find to anchor his co--”

“Enough, enough!” cries Harry, breaking apart from Sansa as she tries to catch her breath. “Such are no songs for a Lady’s ears.”

The bard answers: “it’s not her ears you should be focused on, my Lord!” 

Finally, the feast laughs, and she knows she’s safe.

She looks at the crowd, flushed with wine and intrigue, and wonders how long it will be before their ravens and gossiping tongues announce the marriage of Sansa Stark to Harrold Hardyng in all the kingdom’s corners. But then, she muses, she knows the answer. She knows it won’t be long until the threats and intrigues pile up like snow drifts at her door. Indeed, her and Petyr are counting on it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The bedding ceremony begins without warning, as it always does; there must be some group-think of lust and merriment that grips the drunk collective and spurs them into action. She’s reminded of an aborted attempt, but it seems almost like another lifetime. She’s not afraid now - no. She’d just like to get it over with already; the vial of dove’s blood is lying ready underneath her marriage bed. Sansa grabs her goblet for one last sip and braces for the plunge. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“My darling, my sweet one. You’re perfect. So perfect.” 

She feels Harry’s heavy wine breath against her neck, his muscular arms around her. It’s the milky pre-dawn; they have slept fitfully in between getting to know each others’ bodies, covers pulled over and thrown off as the night wore on. 

She disentangles herself and flips over, tilts her neck to look into his face. In this light, it’s blurred slightly, and smiling. It looks like a loving lover’s face. Her heart sinks a little; she knows it’s true. She turns around again. She thinks of Petyr; how he held her close after his toast to her marriage; of his lips against her hand. She imagines getting out of this bed and slipping into his, and is wet again.

“And you are my love. My true love. Oh Harry - I’m so happy, I don’t know what to do.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	12. Cutting the Small Talk

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sansa wakes up in the milky predawn, and preens (like a cat, or a bird). She runs her hands along the soft down covers and smiles. It’s not the smile of simple joy or the sweet smile of a young girl. It’s a smile of pleasure and self-satisfaction. The septas will come in shortly, but they will see exactly what they need to: stained sheets turning rusty brown. She looks at Harry, hair tousled and lips parted, a bare foot peeking out the covers. She smiles more sincerely. He’s a sweet boy, and she hopes they have a little time to enjoy each other. Then there’s a rap-rap at the door, and she lies down and closes her eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Oh, Harry, I simply don’t understand it!” 

“Darling wife, come here, and I’ll explain.” Sansa walks over to the desk and arranges herself on Harry’s lap. He points to a map pinned on the desk and says:

“See here? That’s The Gates of the Moon.” Nuzzles her ear. “And to the left there, that’s Tully land. Your land. And beyond the Neck - that’s the North. The Freys have invaded it, taking all this (moves her finger in a circle). And we want to take it back.”

“But how? If the Freys and Boltons have the North, and the Lannisters and Tyrells the South - even with the havoc of Euron’s Iron Fleet...but I only know because Myranda Royce told me...” she corrects quickly, when Harry seems surprised at her knowledge.

“They didn’t tell me my wife is clever as well as beautiful,” teases Harry, bouncing her on his knee and grinning. Seeing Sansa blush, he continues, “you’re right. It won’t be easy. But winter is coming, and that makes it harder for Lannister forces to move. And Stannis Baratheon - our reports have him in the North, at the Night’s Watch. God knows what he’s doing there, but he’s our ally against the Freys.” Seeing her blank look (she does a good one, Sansa thinks), he chuckles and wraps her closer. 

“Let’s talk about this later, Harry. I’m more interested in other things.”

Harry grins, and in one swift movement, lifts her up and carries her to the fireplace. 

“Like what, my lady?”

“Like...your hair.” She runs her pale hands through it. “Your eyes.” She kisses each one. “Your lips.” And there are no more words that afternoon. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa is ravenous at dinner and struggles to remain ladylike while reaching for a second helping of venison.

“Marriage agrees with you, I see,” says the Lord Protector, smirking. 

Sansa wants to say something cutting, but she’s cutting her way through a particularly bloody piece. 

“Maybe our Lady had a chance to work up her appetite?” Sansa glares at a leering Myranda. Harry laughs, and Lord Nestor putters: “now, now, Randa dear. Let’s try to keep up an appearance of civility, at least.” 

“Yes, Father,” grins Myranda, unchastened.

“We shall make sure to give our compliments to the kitchens,” says Petyr smoothly. “But perhaps it is time to discuss matters dearer to our hearts? After all” - with a pointed glance at the masticating Sansa - “winter is coming, and we must needs be prepared.”

“Then let us act!” Harry urges, swinging the fork for emphasis. “Winter is coming, and there can’t be more than a few months before some of the passes are frozen over.”

“Yes, and what if the passes freeze after the Vale forces march out? What will you do then?” asks Lord Royce. “Despite my young lord’s enthusiasm, there is no guarantee the Freys’ hold on Riverrun will be sufficiently weak to overcome.”

“Yes, but they will be distracted when both the Boltons and Casterly Rock call on them for help - after all, they can hardly refuse, being the most hated family in Wester-”

“In any event,” Petyr interjects, “the Freys are not the real threat. Harry is right - they will find no allies but the Lannisters, and given the current chaos, the Lannisters are unlikely to divert resources away from safeguarding Casterly Rock. Highgarden has enough troubles on its hands with Queen Margery’s trial and Euron Greyjoy advances.

“No, our true challenge lies to the East. This ‘Young Griff’ has landed on Dragonstone, claiming to be Rhaegar’s son. And there are rumors of the girl, Daenerys, styling herself the Mother of Dragons. So many years without a Dragon, and now they are hatching everywhere!” Petyr chuckles indulgently at his joke when no one else does. 

“Young Griff,” growls Nestor. “Imposter, more like. And a girl with dragons? How is a girl, even with hypothetical dragons, to cross into and conquer Westeros?”

“Imposter or no, Dragonstone is not so many leagues from Gull Town. And my seat of Harrenhal is proof enough of the power of dragonfire.” Petyr takes a sip of wine and smoothes his doublet. “The Vale should prepare a welcome.”

“You can’t be serious!” Harry bursts out. “What about our allegiance with Stannis? The Boltons? Sansa’s birthright? 

“We have made no formal allegiance, Lord Hardyng,” responds Petyr crisply, “and I have not forgotten our arrangements: the Boltons and Freys will get their due.”

“They will.” The table turns at the quiet hate in Sansa’s voice. “I will see them pay for what they did to Winterfell, to Bran, to Rickon, to Father, to Mother. They will all pay.” Her eyes remain lowered, but Harry can see her knuckles whiten as they grip her wine-cup. 

Glancing upwards and noticing how Harry looks discomfited by this change in his sweet wife, she continues, “I only meant, now they have to contend with the strength of the Falcon.” Sansa smiles while squeezing his hand and ignores Myranda’s eyeroll and the tightening of Petyr’s mouth. Emboldened by Harry’s resulting grin, she continues, “and while the land passes may close, the seas remain open.”

“And the Vale has ships your brother didn’t,” Petyr follows. “Yes. Let the West worry at itself. As to the rest - our plans remain unchanged. When the Vale’s forces arrive in White Harbor, my friends assure me they will receive a warm welcome. A portion of the advance will join the bannerman loyal to House Stark - and its remaining heir - to roust the Boltons, while the other half marches down the Neck to toss out the Freys and their dregs.”

“And Emmon? Riverrun?” Lord Royce presses.

“I do believe Emmon will find himself distracted by an unexpected enemy,” says Petyr, but his customary smirk is for once absent, and he declines to elaborate when the four look to him for explanation. “Emmon Frey will not long hold his oh-so coveted seat in Riverrun.” 

“Are you also so sure of the Lords Declarant? Are you certain they will vouchsafe these ambitions? And what of Lord Robert?”

“The Lords have been wise so far in their judgments, Lord Royce; I will defer to their decision. As they should, of course, defer to their Lord. Our little Sweetrobin.”

Nestor shifts uneasily. “Surely you don’t think Lord Robert should - that is, he is so...young.”

“I agree that our good Robert is still a youth, schooled for leadership and trained in the learned arts though he might be. Still, does youth override true judgment? Or is wisdom measured solely in years? Our man Harry here disproves that, hmm?” Harry beams.

“Maybe Lord Petyr has the right of it, my Lord,” Harry says, reaching out to grip the older man’s leather-clad forearm. “The Freys and Boltons are scum and need to be dealt with, for honor’s sake as well to restore my good-Uncle to Riverrun and to protect Sansa and her right to Winterfell. But why get involved in endless politicking or stuck in some never-ending game of thrones? We don’t want war coming to our shores, at least, not yet, that is, not when there will, er, might, be young ones in danger.” 

He glances down at Sansa’s belly. Sansa makes sure to shudder and grip Harry’s arm tightly. Petyr notices, and smirks.

“Ah - is all this talk of battle and strategy is wearing out our young Lady here? Perhaps she is more interested in other activities? Fair enough - the hour grows late, and as Lord Nestor rightly says, this is all a speculation without Lord Robert’s approval. ‘Can’t cross the brink until it’s written down in ink,’ - isn’t that how the saying goes?

 

“Go on then, now, off with you both! But Sansa, be sure not to task our Falcon overmuch. He might face other tasks that require his stamina in the future.”

Harry laughs at that, and rises with a bow before taking Sansa’s hand. “Good night then, Lord Petyr, Lord Nestor, Lady Randa. We shall see you on the ‘morrow!”

“Late on the morrow, I expect,” calls Myranda after them. She pauses, then narrows her eyes at Petyr as he methodically slices the remainder of an apple with his knife. “I hope, for Sansa’s sake, you’re as clever as you’re rumored to be, Lord Baelish.”

“There are rumors about me, dear Lady? How delicious.” He slides a slice between his teeth. “And there are rumours you are the one to go to to hear any number of them. But perhaps that is, as they say, just another rumour.” He stands. “Alas, I fear I am not as young as I used to be, and find myself weary. Lord Nestor, please do extend the cook my deepest compliments.” He walks away, his torch throwing dysmorphic bodies of light against the walls. 

Myranda stretches, stands up, and leans down to kiss Nestor’s cheek. “There’s a chill in here, Father. Shall I order more wood for the fireplace?”

“What?” murmurs Lord Nestor. “No, no, I’m fine. Go on now, get to bed.”

“Alright, but don’t stay up too long. The night is dark, and full of terrors,” but she winks at him and nods her head towards Petyr’s bedchambers. 

Lord Nestor smiles faintly at his daughter, but does not move, remaining lost in thought until owls hoot at the grey shadows lengthening in eastern skies.


	13. The sweet songs of little birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some changes made to this chapter, to better reflect the chapter that will follow it.

Petyr takes in the scene before him. Little Lord Robert,  dressed in the blue white finery of House Arryn, sits at the head of the Moon Gates’ great hall, flanked by Harry and Sansa on one side and Nestor and Myranda Royce on the other. Around the table the various Lords Declarant murmur like troubled bees, while servants, pages, and hedge knights mill around the edges. Although he is seated closer to the far side of Robert than the near, Petyr can still, if not see, sense, Sweetrobin’s agitation, hear Sansa’s comforting murmurs, and taste Harry’s eagerness. He unfolds and scans again the parchment the raven delivered a fortnight ago. It’s a good thing I thrive on chaos, Petyr thinks, before refolding it and nodding once at Nestor Royce, who resignedly returns the nod and stands. It is the anticipation of the summons, rather than the sound of the creaking chair and the motion of Lord Royce rising, that stills the crowd.

 

“My good Lords and ladies: I thank you for endeavoring to be here on short notice and braving the weather that troubled much of your journeys.”

 

“Ill omens, more like!” someone mutters loudly.

 

Ignoring the jibe, Nestor continues. “As you know, the Vale has been wise enough to remain removed from the wars that have troubled Westeros. We have reaped good harvests and prepared for the winter that is now on our doorstep. But now it seems that trouble is now on it as well.

 

“Many of you were present at the wedding of Lord Hardyng to Lady Sansa, ah, Stark. While I am glad for the joy of this union, it has also - unsurprisingly (Lord Nestor looks directly at Littlefinger) - ignited the fury of King’s Landing.

 

“King Tommen is ordering that we turn over the Lady Sansa to be tried for the murder of King Joffrey, or the Lannister forces will march on the Vale. The Tyrells and Freys are making similar demands, while the Bolton bastard is threatening to hang a girl he claims is Arya Stark. Lord Stannis is demanding the fealty of Lady Sansa to his claim. And a raven brought news, now a fortnight ago from Dragonstone and its new commander. A one Aegon Targaryen.” Pitched excitement bursts from the crowd.

 

“Lords!” Nestor speaks loudly to be heard over the din. “My Lords!

 

“We must decide, and decide soon. Even if we waited for winter to close the Bloody Gate, we are open to the East, and North, and it is our task to answer the question: what is to be done? Does Lady Sansa return to King’s Landing? I ask you, Lords and Ladies: whom does the Vale answer?” Lord Nestor sits wearily (warily?) down.

 

The crowd erupts with speculation, some voices loudly cheering Sansa’s claim, while others express varying degrees of doubt; doubt at whether battles could be won and doubts as to the costs of such success.

 

Petyr sees Sansa whispering to Sweetrobin from time to time, looking for all the world like a loving older sister soothing her fragile young charge. Petyr is pleased; Sansa has mastered not only a face as pale as porcelain and calm as milk, but schooled her face to show emotion completely divorced from action. He knows, how often has she sat with Sweetrobin of late, regaling him with stories of his father’s heroics, the glories of battles past and those to come, and the dangers of lions. So, with each subtle message that flows from Sansa’s mouth to Sweetrobin’s ear, he grows more agitated. And when Lord Gildwood Hunter loudly suggests they align with the Lannisters ‘before it’s too late’ Sweetrobin interrupts loudly: “No! I am the Lord of the Vale! I get to decide!”

 

Says the lord with no small measure of obsequiousness,“why yes of course, my Lord. I merely meant to point out the benefits to the Vale and your rule by allying with the Lannisters.”

 

“You are too pointy. I don’t like you.” The crowd titters.

 

“Well, my Lord,” huffs Gilwood.

 

“And I don’t like the Lannisters either! The Imp was ugly and my mother should have made him fly. And they were mean to my cousin.” He draws his bony frame up in the chair in an imitation of authority that brings a pang of guilt to Sansa’s stomach. “No one gets to be mean to my family unless I say so. Nobody!” he finishes shrilly.

 

Harry stands up as Sansa pats Sweetrobin encouragingly. “What my good Lord is trying to say is that this is the time to take advantage of our strengths and make a stand. The Freys have violated every code of honor. The Boltons burned Winterfell, tortured Stark bannermen, and are now threatening to murder Lady Sansa’s sister. The Lannister rule is a false one, made of incest and murder - and they most likely murdered our Lord Robert’s father.

 

“The Vale is strong - we have good men, good fighters - while our enemies are weak. Are we to stand and do nothing against injustice? Are we to be seen as weak? I know I cannot sit and watch my wife’s name besmirched and her homeland ravaged. I say we move, and move now. Restore Riverrun to the Tullys and Winterfell to the Starks. An alliance between the Vale, the North, and Riverlands will be a strong one - and one that can withstand even the harshest ice of winter! Listen to the wise words of Lord Robert and the words of House Arryn! As High as Honor!”

 

Harry lifts his chalice into the air with one hand and pulls Sansa to her feet with the other. She flushes, but stands proudly and her red hair contrasts against the pale length of her neck. Cheers erupt and and calls of ‘“yes!” “high as honor!” “let’s teach the bastards!” echo through the room.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The feast that night is fueled by the hubristic energy that comes before a war and war’s realities: all things are possible, all enemies vanquished. Even Sansa is not immune to the feeling as she sits and listens to tales of war and heroism; since wearing Alayne’s skin became optional, the desire for Stark-revenge swells up more and more often, an animal-like hunger. It frightens her, in a way, this feeling, and she does her best to tamp it down. It reminds her too much of what is past and gone, and threatens pulls her back too close to the edge of a time when things were as they should be. Porcelain to ivory to steel: Sansa knows how sweetness can turn to ash, how quickly hoped-for dreams become nightmares. She forces her lungs to move slowly, calmly. She is no longer afraid to die, and she is not alone anymore. Her companions, the merlins, and hawks, and the swallows fly alongside her, and she flies with them in her dreams. That she will fly one day too, Sansa is sure.

 

The thought gives her strength, and she refocuses on the conversation at hand. She smiles, and flirts, and charms, is demure with those who think her trouble and bold with those who favor jest. She leans forward when she sees eyes drawn to the tops of her milk-cream breasts, leans back to play the role of delighted and harmless gossip with the older matrons.

 

She exchange words with Petyr once, after begging a respite from dancing. Cheeks flushed, she accepts the cup of wine he produces after magically appearing at her side.

 

“My Lord is too kind.”

 

“I’m afraid I must disagree with you, Lady. People have called me many things; kind is not one of them.”

 

Sansa looks at him from the corner of her eyes. Petyr’s green ones scan the crowd, his black-and-grey hair trimmed and neatly swept despite the late hour. No one else except Sansa would guess that beneath his casual stance (and tonight, under the mother-of-pearl doublet fastened with a jade mockingbird brooch) his muscles are tensed, poised, at the ready.

 

“No,” concedes Sansa, taking a sip of wine and idly gazing at Harry, who is lifting some young maid with a particularly cheerful swing. “You are not kind. So why do you advance Sansa Stark’s cause? Sansa, who is not even anymore Alayne, your daughter?”

 

“Your cause? You disappointment me, Sansa. Have I been striving for years before you graced this world to further only your cause?” He looks down at her with gently-raised eyebrows.

 

Sansa cuts down the small piece of her that wished he’d said, “because I love you” or “because I’m proud of you.” Only fools try to turn stones to gold.

 

“Of course. What a pointless request. If you advance my cause it must be because it advances yours. I am part of your plans, to whatever end you plan for me.” Sansa pauses. “Do you know,  I can’t remember the color of Lady’s eyes, or how her fur felt under my hand?” Whenever I try to dream of wolves, it’s always from above. I can feel my sharp teeth and I’m hungry, but when I look down, I have talons, not claws.”

 

She turns to face him, hair loosened and pupils wine-widened. “So what does that make me? Do you already know what I will become? A Stark without honor is cursed, but then, I never did have the goodness in me that Father or Mother or Robb or Bran or Arya or Rickon did; not even from the beginning. You knew, you saw. I’ll never have their goodness and I’ll never be as good as you at the game, but that doesn’t really matter.”

 

Sansa looks back at the crowd, eyes glazing slightly and a small smile quirking at her lips. “I’m already a pawn on a thousand boards and the only moves I have are justice and revenge - terrible ones, wouldn’t you agree? But if I have teeth and you gave me wings, then you plan for me to use them. Gladly - as long as the enemies I destroy are no friends of the Starks and their kin. This little bird would rather destroy herself; she is not afraid.”

 

The music stops and the dancers bow to each other.

 

“Ah,” says Sansa. “I see that my husband might now have - need - of me.” Sansa makes to leave and Petyr touches her harm, light like steel, though he keeps his eyes on the crowd. “I have need of you.”

 

Sansa looks down at her arm, then up at him. “Quite so. But as Petyr? Conspirator and lover? Father? This pawn gets confused.” Sansa frees her arm and re-enters the crowd like, Petyr thinks, a bright leaf in a dull autumn, or like the falcon Harry gave her, whom she named Lyanna.


	14. Mating Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter contains scenes of an explicitly sexual nature, which may not be to everyone's taste. I try not to include too many such scenes...but sometimes they do sneak in!

Lord Baelish requests her presence later that week, while Harry takes his men hunting (darling don’t go, she said / it’s to get their blood up, dearest, he said, like you do to mine). 

Cold sunlight bathes the room so brightly it feels slightly unreal; it uncovers dust’s gentle caress on the room’s heavy wood furniture and washes out the fireplace-flames. When Petyr turns to her from his desk and asks her to lock the door, the light exposes faint bruising under his eyes from lack of sleep and the fine web of lines on his face contrasted against the black of his beard. He lifts a hand to hers when she’s close enough and smiles, his green grey eyes friendly. Sansa’s skirts ruffle as he pulls her down gently to sit on his lap. Neither of them speak and his arms stay modestly wrapped around her waist as they gaze out the window onto the snows below.

Sansa wonders at herself. Why, just two years ago she believed in fairy-tale princes and in etiquette just-so. Now she seems to veer between clarity of purpose and a sense of pleasurable detachment. She’s in the latter state of mind when Petyr breaks the silence.

“I have something for you.” Petyr opens a small box on his desk with his left hand, still holding onto her waist with his right. “It’s from Lys.” 

Two small tablets rest in the wooden box, smelling like jasmine. 

“I usually require a sizable donation in exchange for one - but what is a rule unless it’s broken sometimes. Isn’t that so, sweetling?” 

“What are they?”

“They are for devotees of the Lysene goddess. Worshippers believe that, by increasing their ability to feel pleasure, they can transcend earthly limitations and more fully understand her. Of course, at other times they’re used for much less...godly purposes.”

“I can imagine,” responds Sansa drily.

“But as you Starks remind the world, winter is coming. Things happen. Why let this opportunity go to waste?”

Sansa twists around to look at Petyr, who smiles innocently. “The effects last a few hours, no more. I’ll take one too, of course, my suspicious flower.” He lightly bounces her on his knee.

Sansa wonders why he’s doing this. Is it to put her in his debt? Make her vulnerable? Plant something in her mind while she’s under a foreign influence? But when she feels his cock against her back she begins to suspect - unbelievable though it seems - that Petyr himself has proven unable to resist desire. Will wonders never cease, thinks Sansa. And of course Petyr could never ask for something honestly, openly; even his need must be masked and made into a game of artifice. 

But, well, why not?

She nods her head, still facing the window, and with a slight tremble Petyr slides her off his lap, gets up, and walks to the decanter of wine. He pours two glasses, drops a tablet in each, and offers a glass to Sansa: “to making the most of life.”

“To making the most of life,” Sansa repeats, and takes a sip. Arbor Gold. Naturally. 

He motions for her to sit on the sofa by the fire, and they discuss and analyse recent events; whether the Redforts are planning to defect; news from the Frey camp. She feels a pleasant sort of humming in her blood, but she almost forgets what she’s taken until she looks over at Petyr, who is rubbing his breeches unashamedly and, when he sees her looking, begins to unlace them. “Don’t you want to?” he drawls. 

This is madness, she thinks, because she does. Her heart pounds erratically and she feels herself getting wet as he smiles at her, pupils dark. This isn’t a world away from Sansa’s old life - it’s ten thousand. She will disappear, or fade, or drown in the layers of personhood she is wearing, letting herself be dressed as (and Petyr is a master tailor).

But whatever he gave her is doing a good job of overruling any part of her mind that says ‘no,’ and when she gets on her knees to take Petyr’s cock in her mouth, the ‘nos’ become very faint indeed. 

He groans and leans back, a hand lazily rubbing her hair, lit by a shaft of sunlight. She licks and mouths the length of him, feeling the skin taut and soft against his hardness, and it feels, gods, so good. Her cunt is throbbing, and she tugs impatiently at her layers without letting her mouth letting go of his cock. Seeing her struggle, Petyr laughs and pushes her off. When she huffs hungrily, he laughs. “Don’t worry, my darling. We are very far from being done.”

He pulls her to her feet and walks her to a corner of the room at the foot of his bed. Taking his time, he opens her stays and pulls down her dress. Then he pushes her back until her hands are on the bed, facing away from him. He undresses himself, walks back to his desk, and removes an item that looks to Sansa like a thin candlestick. She bites her lip at the feeling of wetness dripping from her. Petyr returns and bends over her, skin as hot as hers, to ask, “do want me to fuck you, darling Sansa?”

“Yes. Yes. Hard. Hard, please, hard.”

“Oh no. Not yet. Not close at all.” He leans back to takes his cock in hand and draw slow, lazy circles around her cunt, entering her just enough to make her whimper. It doesn’t take her long to come, knees quivering, but when she makes to lie down, he stops her. “Not close at all,” he repeats. His left hand still on her ass, he picks up the (candlestick?) and sucks the tip. Suddenly Sansa feels an unfamiliar pressure. She gasps and tries to rise, but Petyr leans forward to hug her breasts and whisper in her ear, “no, not yet. Don’t worry, my perfect darling. This is pleasure.” A soft moan. “You’re so perfect. Perfect. Do I tell you that enough? Your cunt is perfect, your hair is perfect, your skin, you ass, your lips, your thighs, your thoughts, your mind. Do you know? The first time I saw you I wanted you. That’s the measure of the man I am.”

He slides the wand further into her, and gods, she’s close again. 

“But you knew that, didn’t you, my Sansa? As I sensed the worth of the mind the world had ignored, you sensed what I was, yes?”

It’s all Sansa can do to nod as she comes, the beautiful release and layers of pleasure overtaking her. 

“Yes, you knew. And I loved you for it. I loved you for it.” Petyr seems oblivious as to the words he has said, intent on sliding the thin porcelain wand in and out. 

After Sansa comes the third time, she begs to lie down. Petyr swipes his fingers across her cunt, granting her request when he finds his hand slick and wet. They lie down facing each other and the minutes ticktock by. Sansa’s eyes drift open and closed as she gently but insistently runs a hand up and down his cock. 

“Petyr?”

“Yes, my winsome one?”

“Will I ever see Winterfell again?” 

“What’s that, sweetling?” murmurs Petyr as he undulates his hips into her hand. “Winterfell? Of course. Didn’t I promise you?”

“What you promise, and what you actually give, Petyr, are unfaithful bedfellows. No,” - and here Sansa rises up. “Tell me true on this one thing. Just this one.”

“Do you want to go back?” 

The question makes Sansa pause. After a moment, she pulls him back up and, hand on wrist, drags him to his desk. She places his palms flat on the wood and begins to slide the wand in and out of Petyr’s ass. (madness).

“I want to go back when I know how to punish my enemies.” Deeper. Petyr moans.

“When I can wield the sword that slays all the giants in their castles built of snow and blood.” Petyr starts begging her. Harder. More.

“When I say who lives and who dies.” Petyr tries to touch his cock, whimpering. She leans over to slap his hand away. “Not close at all, Lord Petyr.”

“When I am free to fly.” She pulls out the wand and flips him around, nodding her head to indicate he should get on the desk, which he does eagerly, precious secrets strategies and lies falling carelessly around him like snow. She straddles his mouth.

“So tell me, Petyr: will I ever see Winterfell again?” In response she feels a warmth and wetness against her, inside her, tasting her, as she looks out the window at the afternoon.

She feels his pleased rumbling against her when it doesn’t take her long to come, shuddering against his hands and lips and arms. When his tongue feels too sensitive, too soon, she lifts up and slides herself back so her cunt is on his stomach. He places one hand behind his head and looks up her smiling, the swift-fading light of the afternoon streaming into her hair gold and red, vermillion, auburn, fire. 

“You should be a Queen,” Petyr says, a trace of wonder in his eyes as his fingers sweep against her hair and the underside of her breasts. “All men should be forced to worship you.”

Sansa smiles, flattered. “And would you be the man to force them?” 

“Of course. They would get up off their knees only with permission, the same as no one would dare touch you without permission.”

“Whose permission?”

“Yours. Mine. Ours.”

“Ours?”

“Ours.” Petyr lifts a hand to rub his thumb along her lower lip. “Ours.”

“And which throne would we rule from?”

“Any one you wanted. But you don’t need to sit on a throne - gold, iron, ice, fire, ash - to be a Queen, Sansa. Just as you don’t need to be a king to rule.”

“Just so. But Petyr, I broke your cardinal rule today: I told you what I wanted. I told you I wanted the Stark’s enemies crushed; I told you I wanted to crush them. Now you know how to move me, don’t you?”

Sansa looks down at Petyr when she hears him laughing. It’s a lighthearted happy chuckle, such that she’s never heard before from him; tiny tears forming in the corner of his eyes and she can feel his stomach muscles tightening as he laughs.

“Oh my dearest. I think that you, rather, are in that position right now, no?”

Sansa realizes she’s sitting on top of him, straddling him on his own desk, papers strewn everywhere. She begins to smile, and her smile turns to laughter too. “I believe you meant to address me as your Queen, did you not? I pray that I will not need to use force to correct you?”

“A thousand apologies, my Sansa, the First and only of your Name, the Red Queen, the Queen of Winter, Mistress of Disguises, Lady-Hawk and Conqueror of Hearts.”

“Hmm. A decent apology, but I believe that personal instruction is necessary to ensure such omissions do not recur.” Sansa moves backwards and slithers off the desk. Pulling Petyr to his feet (cock still hard), she walks them to the glass Petyr had installed near the fireplace (people can’t resist the chance to look at themselves and preen, he said, and a distracted foe is always better than a focused one). She unrolls a tapestry that had lately been delivered from King’s Landing and lays Petyr down on it. She kneels down and straddles him, her gasp and his groan mingling as her tightness envelopes him. 

“Look at yourself, Sansa. Look at how beautiful you are.”

Sansa looks up and sees herself, red hair tumbling down the milky curves of her body as she moves against him. Her face, lips parted and skin flushed, nonetheless bears an expression she’s never seen herself wear before: confident authority. Sansa smiles, almost shyly, and the expression disappears.

Petyr grasps her hips and raises his, picking up the pace.

“Sansa, fuck, you feel so good, like you were made for me. And you are, aren’t you? Didn’t I help shape you, my creation?”

Sansa responds by slowing down, drawing a grunt from him each time she lifts up and circles down. 

“Gods, Sansa, you’re what I’ve waited for. My creation. My promise.” 

She slaps him, sharp, across the cheek. “I’m not your promise. You’re not a good man, Lord Baelish. You’re a bad one, and your creations are bad too.”

Petyr groans, eyes closed. “Yes, and I never plan on being a good man. A good one wouldn’t dare fuck you like this, would he sweetling? Even though he’d want to. Even though every man who sees you wants to fuck you.” 

He fingers her clit and elicits a high moan. 

“They do. Oh yes. But I was your first. You made me yours first.” Another moan. “Open your eyes, Sansa. Look at the mirror.” Sansa complies. “You will see Winterfell, my Sansa, before the end. That’s my promise. The promise of a very bad man.”

Sansa tries to keep her eyes open, but pleasure keeps closing them. She rides him until he slides his hand from her mound to her hips. She feels his hands tighten and his body clench, back arching as he comes. His head falls back to the ground, cock still twitching inside her, breathing heavily. 

For a while they both lie on the tapestry and catch their breaths. As Sansa drifts back to reality, she realizes the fire has died down and the air is cold. She slides closer to Petyr and drapes her leg over his. At the movement, Petyr shakes himself awake. 

“Ah, you’re cold, my love. And in need of a bath; your Harry will be returning soon. Come, come here, and I’ll help you.”

Sansa lazily struggles up and pads over to the corner of the room where a basin stands. Petyr takes a soft cloth and dips it in the water, then begins to gently rub Sansa’s body. She sniffs; the water is scented with lemon and mint. 

“See that there, Sansa? The tapestry you so tastefully chose? I had that delivered from King’s Landing. Poor Cersei, she had no idea why I asked for it.”

“And why did you?” 

“What Cersei saw as boring scenes of hunting - indeed, that’s what they look like to most - contain a special secret. See that tree in the upper left hand side? The grey ash, near the water? And the twin sentinel trees at the bottom?”

Understanding begins to dawn on Sansa. “The way through the woods,” she whispers. 

“Yes, my love,” Petyr says, rubbing the scented water across her back, down, and up. “That’s a belated marriage gift from your adoring father. Even if the Freys still hold the Twins, there are other ways, secret ways, around them. Not smooth paths, of course, but unexpected ones. And that’s a lesson you haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, Father. I haven’t.” Sansa turns around and places a kiss, rather tender, on his cheek. “I have always strived to be a good pupil for my teacher.”

“And you have been, my darling. You have excelled.”

“Will you join us for dinner?” Sansa says, beginning to lace herself back into her dress as best she can. 

“I will do my best. There are many matters that are annoyingly persist on my attention.”

Sansa smiles, “then I am lucky that I had you at attention before they.”

Petyr smiles back. “Just so, my dearest. Not that it was ever a question; don’t you know you are always on my mind?” The door clicks softly as Sansa walks out, feather-silent as ever, and Petyr smiles to himself. Yes. It is all going very well indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The nausea comes over her suddenly; a bitter wave in her gullet. Her chair tips backwards with a clatter as she rushes to the basin and retches. Oh gods, she thinks, and knows it won’t be long before the maids’ gossipy clucking is spread all over the castle, and all will know she’s pregnant. She should be happy; it could have been that it would take her much longer to conceive, or not at all. But she knows, certain as sunlight, her child isn’t Harry’s.


	15. Learn to fly, and fly away, little bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Part I of the story. Part II will be a different publication entry, working backwards from the last paragraph of this chapter. Please feel free to comment, point out inconsistencies, etc. Thanks!

The Lord Protector’s trip is unplanned, but not unexpected. He has begun to travel considerably of late as the battle plans are finalized, and everyone knows he might leave and be barred from returning if the winter storms descended. So no one takes particular note when Lady Sansa visits his chambers to say farewell. 

She pauses before knocking, oddly unsure. “Lord Baelish?”

“Come in.”

Sansa opens the door, the same heavy wooden door she’s opened a thousand times, and closes it behind her. Petyr is seated at his desk, papers piled into neat stacks in front of him. Why am I so nervous? she thinks as she walks to him, her green wool dress draping over a barely visible bump in her belly. 

“Harry must be very proud of his family’s new addition. Oh, and did you hear? Our little Lord Robert went outside yesterday with Mya; I’m told he quite enjoyed it. Perhaps he will recover after all. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Petyr, I...I,” she can’t go on when he looks at her, his eyes for once completely devoid of any mocking smile; blank. 

“Father, I’m so sorry.” Sansa falls to her knees and puts her head in Petyr’s lap. Her hands grip his thighs. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave. Please. Please don’t leave me.” She feels panic rising, choking her throat. When she looks up again, he turns his eyes away.

“Please...say something. Father, Petyr, please.” Sansa knows she should be proud, strong, and she is, but there’s a babe in her belly and she’s scared. So scared. Still Petyr says nothing. 

Sansa rises unsteadily to her feet. The panic is making her feel dizzy, blood chasing itself through her veins. She walks to the side table and pours herself a glass of wine from Petyr’s tankard, takes a deep swallow, and pours herself another. 

“What are you doing?!” yells Petyr, finding his voice. “Are you mad?” The chair screeches against stone as he gets up and knocks the chalice from her hand.

The cup clangs on the stone floor as she looks at him, wild-eyed. “And what do you care, Lord Baelish? What does the mockingbird care if little birds pierce themselves on thorns?” She bends down to pick up the cup and trips on her the hem of her dress, hitting the ground in a heavy heap. Suddenly she feels arms pulling her up, throwing her on pillows. Sansa looks up at Petyr, gasping for breath and staring furiously. 

“You will NOT do this! I will not have some foolish girl hurting -”

“Hurting what, Lord Baelish?” Sansa hisses (ever mindful). “Hurting your child?”

If Sansa thought he was angry before, his rage surprises even her as she feels his fine cool hand squeezing her throat.

There is a silence, broken only by her gasping breaths. Sansa looks into his eyes again and sees something she’s never seen before: fear. She looks back, her blue blue eyes telling him she understands. His fingers loosen and his shoulders slump. 

I am the fake daughter of a true bastard. And his true child can only ever be a bastard. I understand. 

Sansa’s hand strokes his cheek, and it is his turn to place his head in her lap. It is his turn to heave and sob. She can tell he’s disgusted by himself and that he’ll punish himself and those around him afterward, but that doesn’t slow his desperate cries, his convulsing fingers, his moans. She stares into the fire, and murmurs soothing sounds, rubs her fingers through his short black hair. She suddenly feels a hundred years old. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, “I understand. You have to go. The longer you’re away before the birth, the less people will be able to tell. I understand. It’s alright.”

Petyr looks up at her then, and she sees the little boy he was; the little boy all boys are before they’re corrupted and twisted into shapes their mothers can’t recognize. 

In contrast to the times before, he is so gentle when he makes love to her; his fingers caress her body, her breasts, her cheeks, her belly. He kisses her with feather-light kisses, and he fucks her so softly, so sweetly, Sansa can almost forget he is Petyr Baelish, master schemer. And for the first time, he looks into her eyes as he comes. They memorize each others eyes in that moment, grey and blue and green and gold. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Before he leaves, he gives her the small leather pouch. She un-cinches it and sees inside a tiny vial, filled with a pale yellow liquid. 

“In case Harry is not there to protect you. Three drops should suffice.” He avoids her gaze. “There...shouldn’t be any pain.”

Sansa nods. 

Before she leaves, she turns and asks, “how do mockingbirds survive the winter?”

He smiles at her, and it seems genuine, if tired. “They fly south.”

She silently opens the heavy wooden door of Petyr’s solar, and closes it silently behind her. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The birth is the most painful thing Sansa has ever endured. Gods - I didn’t even know pain existed before now. 

A storm darkens the black sky (it’s always dark now) and howls, but Sansa demands the window stay open. She is a child of the North, and her child will be born in the cold. For a moment she sees herself as she is on the bed, hair plastered to her brow and back against the wall, but then she’s back in herself, staring at a worn tapestry hanging opposite, while her hawk Lyanna watches with unblinking golden eyes from the windowsill.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
With a final cracking scream and the metallic scent of blood, Sansa’s babe is born. The nurse cuts the cord and slaps its little form into life. She washes it in a warm bath, wraps it up, and brings it to Sansa. 

Sansa raises herself on her pillows, breathing heavily and ignoring the blood-stained sheets and the cold air. She looks into her babe’s face. It’s a boy. “Merlyn. Oh, my Merlyn.”

“But my Lady,” says a serving girl. “I thought you and your Lord Husband had agreed on Alfryed, after his Lordship’s father.”

“I know. But he is the Falcon’s son. He is named in honor of his father, and it’s a better name than Alfryed. Harry will be pleased.”

Sansa looks back to her babe, swaddled in the warmest wool. I know we said Alfryed, my son. But you are not his Lordship’s child. You can never be a Falcon, but oh my son, my beautiful perfect son, my love, I will make sure that you can fly. In that moment, Sansa knows what Cersei meant, those lifetimes ago: there is nothing a mother won’t do for her child.

I am the lady of ice: let winter come. And so she was, and so it did.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Eleven years later.

Her head leans against the frame of the small high window, eyes unfocused and ears drowning out the clatter of men and arms below. She idly follows a small figure riding along the highway, the black dot growing and forming into a man. As he passes through the grizzled countryside, she feels uneasy, but it is only when he reaches the gate and she hears the jingle of his horse’s reins that her heart stops. She does not need to hear his voice or see his face to know who he is and why he is here: Petyr is come for their son.


End file.
